The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows
by karebear
Summary: After the year that forced them both to grow up in the cruelest ways possible, Anders and Rhyanon Amell meet again in Amaranthine. As Wardens, they must define who they are outside of the Circle, testing the strength of old promises and struggling to rebuild fragile bonds. [Awakening headcanon].
1. Chapter 1

_"Reports of a lover's tryst were neither clear nor descript;  
>we kept it safe and slow."<br>_- Brand New

A low, pulsing headache spikes just under Rhyanon's skull as the horse's hooves pound steadily toward the Wardens' Keep outside of Amaranthine. Even now, she is accutely aware of being _outside__; _there is a whispering voice inside her head, impossible to silence, that refuses to let her believe this won't be taken away. There is a hollow emptiness in her stomach that she can't outrun no matter how fast her horse, the part of her that _wants _it to be taken away. She's already lost everything, hasn't she?

The looming stone walls of the fortress they're approaching look anything but safe to her. Under her breath, she repeats the litany that's brought her here; the words of the oath she'd sworn without believing in it. She clings to it now because she can pretend Alistair might've wanted it that way. It keeps her going, one step at a time, one day at a time. A slower kind of running, because stagnation is death, and she refuses to submit to the slow decay. She's not that type of person. There are too many scars that prove it.

A smoldering anger kindles in her belly and she spurs her horse faster, too fast for her unwanted honor guard to keep up. Too fast to notice the smoke she _should _see on the horizon. It's the unnatural quiet that makes her take notice. Not physical quiet, this is something different, a coldness on the edges of the Fade, an eerie tingle at the back of her neck.

She pulls back on her horse's reins and whispers softly, soothing herself as much as the beast. The animal knows her though, and obeys. And walks forward, cautiously, steadily, pressing forward and sniffing the decaying air. They are both trained for war, they are both tainted, and this is familiar to both of them.

Rhyanon slips off the horse's back and lands softly on booted feet. She stretches out her senses, reaching for the supernatural perception that comes easily to her now. Nothing reaches back, at first, none of the chaotic spikes of heat and noise and taste and chaos that swirl around wherever people gather, living and dreaming and pulling on the Fade without awareness. This Keep, like so much of the land around it, is Blighted and dead.

Rhyanon clenches her hand into a fist and curses inwardly, wondering why she's even being sent here, what the point of it all is. She'd thought she might be left alone after defeating the archdemon, not hired on as the leader of an organization she'd never even really wanted to be part of.

_There's no one else_, she and Alistair had often whispered to one another. _Only us. _

She scowls and glares darkly at the dry, cracked ground where no plants grow. _Everything _makes her think of him.

"Commander?"

It _still _takes a minute to recognize the fact that the hesitant voice is addressing her. Rhyanon curses herself again for not paying attention, for walking into what very well may have been an ambush.

The woman standing before her doesn't make her feel any better. She looks young, though if she thinks about it Rhyanon realizes that _she's _young too. Plenty of people have underestimated her because of it. That's not her major issue with the dark-haired, stony-eyed woman studying her now. What bothers her is that the woman is clearly barely able to hold herself upright, and she's covered in blood. Without thinking, Rhyanon reaches out, and, chewing on her lower lip, concentrates on a healing spell. It still doesn't come easily to her; it never will. But she's had a lot more practice than she's ever wanted within the last year. The flickers of blue energy spark out in unfocused bursts, and the armor-clad woman pulls away. Her eyes widen with shock and the conditioned reflexes of a soldier. It's been a long time since Rhyanon has been forced to remember the hostile suspicion with which most people view magic. She grinds her teeth and takes a few quick, calming breaths, expelling her frustration. "I'm trying to _help _you," she growls at the woman.

The soldier grunts softly. "I've come this far on my own power, Commander."

"Don't be stubborn." The woman ducks her head, acknowledging Rhyanon's higher rank, but Rhyanon sure as hell won't _order _anyone to accept magical healing, especially not someone she's just met. "Sorry," she mutters. The other woman looks up again, less shocked now and more just confused. Rhyanon has given up trying to convince people that she has no idea what she's doing being in charge of people, but that doesn't change the fact that she's still just making it all up as she goes along. She fumbles around in her belt pouch for a small vial of potion, and tosses it to the other soldier; the woman catches it easily enough, though she still frowns at Rhyanon.

Suspicious, that one. Still, that's a lifesaving attitude in wartime. "It's just elfroot. Drink it or don't, I don't care."

The woman hesitates for only a brief moment, but she drinks it. These healing draughts are ubiquitous enough for even a common soldier to recognize them, and the woman must know that it will help her heal naturally much faster and with far less pain. "You're not a Warden," Rhyanon says simply. It's not a question. If the woman was Tainted, she'd be able to feel it.

"No," the woman replies, with a surprisingly soft voice, barely louder than a whisper. She seems a bit embarrased. "Though I could be! If... you'd have me, that is."

Rhyanon frowns. It still surprises her that anyone would _volunteer _to throw their lives away against the darkspawn. She reminds herself that these people don't know what she does, they don't know what being a Warden _means_. And maybe there's part of her that's still jealous that they get to volunteer for anything.

"Why don't you start by telling me what's happened here?" she says, effectively postponing the question.

"The darkspawn attacked the Keep, Commander. They came out of nowhere!" The woman is no longer trying to hide her anger. Rhyanon can feel it sparking up in her, like the heat radiating outward from a fire. She smiles a bit, understanding the feeling all too well.

"What happened to the Wardens that were supposed to be here?"

Rhyanon isn't _from _Ferelden, and even if she were, she grew up locked away in a tower with as much reason to hate her nearest neighbors as she had to hate anyone else in the world. She has no specific quarrel with the Orlesians they fought a generation ago, and she certainly won't turn down the help if they're offering to provide significant numbers against the darkspawn.

The other soldier just shakes her head. "They were overwhelmed, Commander. We all were."

Rhyanon sighs, as echoes of screams and death haunt her; nightmares that chase her, that never stop... she squeezes her eyes shut, just briefly, and then forces herself to trudge forward. "What's your name?" she asks softly.

"Mhairi," the other woman whispers. Rhyanon nods.

"They're still there? In the Keep?"

Mhairi says nothing, but her features twist into a painful grimace that confirms Rhyanon's worst suspicions. She's seen the kind of destruction the darkspawn leave in their wake, and she knows that even a mostly abandoned fortification like the one now left to her will still be full of people who won't be able to fight: kitchenhands, stableboys, old people, and kids. "I... I was sent to find you," Mhairi offers hesitantly. "I do alright with a sword, I've been training since I was little. My father..." she stops abruptly, shaking her head and wrapping her fingers tightly around the mentioned weapon. As though she suddenly remembered that there's real fighting to be done, not just talking.

"Do you know where the darkspawn are?"

Mhairi nods, looking a bit unsettled. "I could show you," she says, already starting to do exactly that. She kneels and begins tracing a knuckle through the dusty ground at Rhyanon's feet. Rhyanon crouches beside the other woman, a shiver wrapping itself around her heart as she makes sense of the still-evolving diagram.

"That looks... planned," she breathes. "An ambush."

Mhairi sits back on her heels and catches Rhyanon's eye, and nods. Rhyanon licks her lips. Tactical sense like this, among even a scattered remnant of the Blight... the darkspawn weren't supposed to be this smart even _with _an archdemon to lead them. Through all the months of the war she'd accidently led, Rhyanon had never seen anything that might indicate this kind of intelligence. And she _swears, _as she reaches out reflexively into the Fade, that she can hear something calling back to her. She feels its heat like tongues of fire licking at the edges of her perception, lighting through her blood, making the taint more painful than it's been for a long time. Since the day she defeated the archdemon. She pushes past the pain, sets her shoulders and pushes herself back up to her feet, then reaches out her hand to take Mhairi's. "Come on," she insists, with a confidence she doesn't feel. "No matter how smart they are, they can still be killed."

Mhairi nods, and pushes her way forward, determined it seems to play scout and protector whether Rhyanon asks her to or not. As they push their way closer to the eerily quiet castle, Rhyanon watches Mhairi fight. She is confident with sword in hand in a way she can't come close to when she's speaking, and Rhyanon lets her lead.

Fighting makes things harder. Rhyanon has been deliberately avoiding it since Denerim – not because she doesn't feel angry enough – Maker knows she's been half a step from lashing out at nearly every person unfortunate enough to cross her path, and only her years in the Circle are preventing her from doing so. She can feel the volatile spikes of her magic, and the insistent urging whispers attached to them, no matter whether she is awake or asleep. She doesn't want to fight because when she does – when she follows this Mhairi into the fray, throwing fire and shocks of lightning, falling into the rhythm all too easily, like no time at all has passed, when she does this, she keeps looking over her shoulder, reaching out into the Fade, searching for someone who isn't here and won't ever be, and his absence rips her apart all over again.

"Are you alright, Commander?" Mhari asks, in one of the surprising to those who have never done this before pauses in between the chaotic rush of war. Rhyanon wipes the sweat from her forehead and presses forward, into the shadowed darkness of the Keep, telling herself she is _not _avoiding Mhairi's question. She searches – with eyes and magic – for more waiting darkspawn, but there seem to be none left to distract her.

"I'm fine," she replies, too quickly and too stiffly, but Mhairi simply nods, not questioning it. Rhyanon moves forward, toward sound, and toward a familiar presence that makes her heart race and her head hurt. She starts running, before she even realizes she's doing so, before she can stop herself. Caution and fear war in her mind, but there's still a part of her that has to see if she's right, that has to _know_. The soldiers she is supposed to be leading – the battered remants of the Keep's people – all fade away.

She moves forward, into a quiet, empty room. No. Not quite empty. The magic she'd been feeling overwhelms her, suddenly. It wraps around her heart, it burrows deep into her body. She tucks herself into that wave, and tears sting her eyes, so she closes them. She doesn't need to see to know him. She recognizes him immediately.

When she opens her eyes again and takes a careful, ragged breath, it's to see him watching her, with a teasing grin on his face and wisps of smoke curling around his finger. But he looks so different. Older. Thinner. Harder. But even more than all of that is the absolute _power_ he's throwing around. She's never seen him do that. Magic in the Tower is limited. He's not even at full strength, though he's close. And she can tell that too. And still, she's almost drowning in the strength of that spell he just tossed. Seeing him again makes it hard to breathe. What the hell is he doing here?

"Anders?" Her voice shakes a little. She blames it on the adrenaline of the fight, still pumping through her system, but the truth is that it has a lot more to do with seeing _him_. She wants to cry, to wrap her arms around him, to reassure herself that this is real. That _he's_ real. She forces herself to calm. She's in charge of these people. The woman hovering behind her radiates enough nervous tension that Rhyanon doesn't need to add to it.

But she loses all composure the minute Anders looks up to meet her eyes. _His_ eyes are not the same. Those warm brown eyes she remembers from the Tower, when he'd kept her safe, they're gone. What she sees now are dark, hollow pits.

She's seen it before, of course she has. He's looked like this more times than she wants to count, more than she wishes she remembered, when she'd desperately tried and failed to pull him through after the long empty stretches of never-talk-about-it time when he was locked up in solitary. But back then, her touch was enough to snap him into motion, if not lucidity. Sometimes he just pushed her away, but that was okay. It was enough to remind both of them that he was still stubborn enough to fight. This, right now, is worse than any of those times, and a shiver runs down Rhyanon's spine as she is forced to recognize it. She gnaws on her lower lip. She forces herself to look beyond him, to those corpses lying at his feet. Darkspawn. And Templar. Their armor is corroded, dented, shot through with electricity and ice.

She should be afraid of him. She should force him to explain this. But she won't. She can't. How could she?

Instead, she crouches down to his level - there are still shackles around his ankles, and a rough rope loosely threaded at his wrists. He flinches away from her, and that hurts more than anything. "Anders, it's okay," she soothes. She strokes him gently, the way she would a wounded animal, and somehow it breaks her even more that he still won't push her away. She waits, holding her breath, for him to snap that he isn't fucking _broken_, or dangerous. She waits for him to tell her to trust him, or cling to her the way he sometimes used to, but he doesn't respond at all. He doesn't even seem to recognize her touch.

Rhyanon blinks the tears away with careful purpose and draws in another deep breath as she slowly begins to undo the bindings. Her fingers skip under the weeping blisters there under the chafing metal. Anders shudders under the inconsequential pressure of her touch. Tears sting her eyes, and she ducks her head so that she doesn't have to look him in the eye because she's pretty sure she can't. Her arms wrap around him instinctively, and she helps him, gently, to his feet. She doesn't even think about this anymore; she's just helping a fellow soldier wounded on the battlefield. She's done it too often, but it's easier too, because she doesn't have to admit that it's him; she doesn't have to confront what that means.

"Melly?"

Her heart skips a beat as Anders whispers her name, disbelieving. She glances up, and those clouded, confused eyes pull her in before she can break away. She's almost positive that neither of them are breathing. His eyes sear into hers, a focused stare that grows no less potent as he blinks repeatedly, trying to clear his head. His movements are slow, dazed. But Rhyanon feels it the moment he freezes, growing still and unnaturally tense. He chokes, and his eyes widen with fear. Pure terror. He trembles as recognition dawns, as his eyes sweep over that sword-and-flame sigil, now blackened. Dead at his feet.

"I didn't do it," he protests, with a strangled whine that makes her stomach clench. "Rhyanon, you have to believe me!"

She just looks at him. She doesn't believe him. How can she, when the evidence is right in front of her? She too stares at those broken bodies. It scares her how easy it's become to stare at corpses. Even human ones. She focuses on one templar in particular. One she knows. Not the worst one, but bad enough. Her head spins. She can still taste the mana in the air, along with the smells of war: blood and fire. But she can block that out now too. "I don't blame you," she says simply. Her voice is hard. Battle-hardened. But she feels scared, more now than she has in a long time. Because it's _him_. Because now she has to remember where she came from. What she's running from, what she used to be.

Anders takes a step back, and Rhyanon isn't sure if she's imagining it, but she's certain she sees him cringe. It's the second time in as many minutes that he's flinched away from her. "I didn't do it!" he demands, more firmly. His voice has lost its panicky edge. He sounds more certain, yet somehow that only makes his desperation even more clear, and Rhyanon has to clench her fingers into a tight fist to keep them from giving away how twitchy she is. He makes her lose her mind. He always has, but she knows him. _He isn't her_. He isn't a killer. She's _watched_ him. He never fought the templars, no matter how badly they hurt him. He never fought back, not physically. He wouldn't kill them. Or at least... the Anders she knew wouldn't kill them. But probably she doesn't know him anymore. He doesn't know her, and he _can't. _She can't let him see her as anything other than the innocent little girl he knows.

"What happened?" she asks softly. Let him tell her. Maybe it'll even be the truth.

Anders frowns. He talks to the corpses, not to her. He sounds as though he's trying to apologize. Or maybe justify. He shoots a confused glance back in her direction. He still holds himself tense, submissive even. As though waiting for punishment. "It felt like a whole army," he whispers, as his eyes linger on the eight or nine bodies littering the floor between them.

He tells her that the templars had lowered the wards, begged desperately for his help, _begged _him to use his magic to protect them from the oncoming darkspawn. And he'd laughed at them. Spit in their faces. He'd been _furious_. Help them? After everything they'd done to him? They deserved to die!

He says it with such cold fury that Rhyanon is chilled. Though she agrees. She agrees with every word he's saying.

But in the end he couldn't do it. Anders is a healer. It would rip away his very soul to kill another human being in cold blood. He couldn't do it. Not even to them.

"We fought them together. I... I don't remember too much. It's all confusing, Mel. But I _know _I didn't kill them. I know it! I... couldn't have?"

The question there, at the end, hangs in the air like a ghost. Barely perceptible, yet it cuts like a knife.

"Okay," she says simply. If he says he didn't do it, she'll believe him. It's that simple. She has to allow it to be that simple. She'll believe him. Or at least she'll try. She push away the nagging doubts that whisper in the back of her mind. It doesn't matter anyway.

"Okay," he repeats, slowly. And then comes the explosion: "Nothing's okay!" he shouts. "They're _dead_, and they _shouldn't be_!"

Who is he, to lecture her? Where would he be now if they weren't dead? "Better them than you!" she screams.

She means it. She'd thought she'd lost him forever. She _cannot _lose him again.

He falls into a shocked silence. He blinks, and sighs. And he slowly shakes his head. The disbelief is written on his face. "You don't mean that," he insists. "You _can't _mean that." She feels the piercing stab of his disappointment deep in her heart. It bleeds into her stomach. "What happened to you, Rhyanon?" he asks softly.

She's shaking. Crying. She can't look at him. He _can't _know. "You told me outside was dangerous," she reminds him. A long, _long _time ago. So long ago it may as well have happened to someone else. "More dangerous than the tower. I didn't believe you." She shrugs. "That's what happened."

Her voice sounds unfamiliar, even to herself. It sounds hollow. Dead. It is _scary_. She sounds dead. And scary.

"Yeah, I can see that," Anders quickly confirms.

Rhyanon swallows hard and forces herself to stop crying. She _wants _him to comfort her. To tell her everything will be okay, the way he used to. But they are not children anymore, and the time for games and comforting illusions is long past. He cannot simply wrap his arms around her until she grows sick of asking questions for him to deflect with a teasing grin and a careful lie. He cannot and he will not. And why should he?

Rhyanon has gotten used to people keeping their distance from her, she's insisted that it doesn't matter. But not Anders. He's supposed to _stay_. When he can, which is never for long enough, but he _can't _push her away because that would give her permission to do the same to him and she will never ever let that happen. There have been more broken promises in her life than she can even count but _not that one_.

She wraps her arms tightly around herself and doesn't look at him, she keeps her voice carefully steady. "How did you get here?" she asks. She asks like she'd ask a random stranger found in this same position. She is guarded and unemotional. She has to separate herself from her knowledge of _him _or there is no way she will not fall apart completely.

Anders laughs, and the sound is harsh and bitter. "What do you think?" he spits. "Wanna guess?"

He motions to the dead templars, as if to point out the absolute obviousness.

Rhyanon smiles a little bit, a cold smile. She crouches next to the corpses and begins to rifle through their gear. It's disgusting, but she doesn't process that. She doesn't allow herself to recognize that Anders might find the action disturbing either. She's simply focused on getting what they'll need to survive and move on. She can't find what she's looking for, yet that doesn't stop her from tucking away everything useful: weapons, potions, vials of lyrium... she stuffs those into the small pouch at her belt and continues rifling through the pockets hidden under the templars' armor. Sometimes they wore them around their necks, close to the heart...

"It's not here," Anders insists. Rhyanon glances up. He's staring down at her with a look of open hurt. Betrayal. She frowns. The guilt squirms in her stomach, but why is she guilty?

"What are you talking about?" she asks, forcing a casual confusion that has no hope of fooling him.

"Oh, come on, Amell!" he snaps. "Why don't you just tell me to my face that you don't trust me?"

The anger in his voice rattles her. It's not as if they'd never fought. But this is different. _Amell_. He's _never_ called her that. That's the teacher name for her. That's what Greagoir calls her. It hurts, to hear it coming from him. People who call her that are on the wrong side. And he should know that. He _does _know that.

"What the hell are you talking about?! Of course I trust you!"

It's surprising, how easy it is to say. 'Of course.' Nothing's 'of course' anymore. But this is. Always.

"Why are you looking for my phylactery?" he asks evenly. "If you trusted me, you wouldn't do that."

His voice is calm, yet it tips her over the edge. More than if he'd been yelling.

"I was looking for it to give it to you! Or destroy it. Moron!"

The teasing doesn't come off like it should, not even close. It feels like there's a hand wrapping itself tightly around her heart, squeezing. She cannot look at him. Her voice is stolen. She forces herself to ask, to push the words out, though they are soft, barely audible: "Do you really think I'd..." she cannot even finish the question. What if the answer is 'yes'? It clearly _is. _

He asks her about trust, but this is what he thinks of her.

He holds her gaze, with those cold, haunted eyes.

She doesn't know him anymore, doesn't even recognize this bitter, broken man. And she closes down completely.

Why should she be surprised? They're not kids, neither of them, and they haven't been for a long time. And she doesn't believe in promises. He promised not to leave her, and that didn't last. Why should he stay now? She nods toward the door. "Fine. Go then." The words are cold, but that makes it easy. She is an _expert _in broken promises now. She doesn't trust anything. Not even him. Maybe she was wrong to from the start.


	2. Chapter 2

Anders' footsteps are heavy and slow – too slow to keep him safe if there are any more darkspawn around. Are there still darkspawn here? He has no idea.

No... he _does _know. He can feel them, feel their tainted magic in the air. Coming from them, and from... her. He feels a sharp twinge of pain in his chest, like sharp-taloned fingernails closing around his heart as he thinks of Rhyanon. It hurts to breathe, but he knows he can't run away. Not from her, not again. Not now.

He climbs instead, moving upward without letting himself think about much. He knows what people think about him; he's heard them say it, over and over, that he can't see the danger in running headlong into a fight he can't win, that he doesn't care about what happens to him. It's not true. But moving is better than staying still, always.

So he moves, one step at a time through the twisting, claustrophobic corridors that he won't let himself be afraid of. His hands grow damp with sweat, and he literally gasps with relief when he slams a trapdoor open and pulls himself out to the roof. He feels safer under open sky, even when it means that he is only steps away from the remnants of the attacking darkspawn force. He can hear the sounds of the battle, weapons and shouted commands, and he listens extra carefully because he can hear her voice mixed in among all of them. No, not mixed in... Rhyanon is louder, more demanding, more... in charge. It is a sobering thought, one he doesn't quite know what to do with.

He probes carefully, not wanting to throw himself into this fight. He's had more than enough of darkspawn already, and it still hurts to use his ducks down behind cover, watching. Trying to think, to plan. He tries to see this in the same way he remembers watching in the Tower. He can see the way people move and predict how to get around them. Escape and evade.

But Rhyanon _doesn't _do that. She fights, until she absolutely can't anymore. People call Anders the stupid one, but they don't know Rhyanon like he does. She's more stubborn than he ever has been, sometimes. She stands toe-to-toe with the darkspawn mage, who looms over her. She fights it fearlessly, even injured as she obviously is. She _can't _win this.

Can she?

Anders bites his lip hard enough to bleed as he watches Rhyanon collapse helplessly amongst the darkspawn. Yet, against all logic, none advance toward her.

None except the big one, who weaves unfamiliar magic in his fingers. Rhyanon fights back as Anders watches helplessly from behind a corner. He wrinkles his nose against the horrid smell of the darkspawn, mixed in with the stench of dead, charred flesh and rotting meat. The fight comes no more easily to him now than it did an hour ago. He has no fucking idea what he is supposed to do, he only knows that he cannot walk away. He cannot _run _away. Not from this.

He remembers with horror the refugees he'd met on the long road to Amaranthine, who had lost everything and left behind nothing but corpses of family members; women raped and children murdered. The Hero of Ferelden had supposedly ended the Blight, yet no single person could have prevented the inevitable tide of war. And the darkspawn are still here.

He swallows hard and tells himself that he is allowed to fight.

There had been rumors back a thousand lifetimes ago, of mages allowed to leave the tower, recruited into an army he would never be able to confirm even existed. It had seemed simply another exageration, another tease, another false hope. It didn't matter anyway; long before a war began and ended in the south of Ferelden, he'd lost his own more personal war. A year in solitary, cut short, he _thinks,_ by the collapse of the only home he'd ever known. He left the familiar terrifying dark and stumbled into a world that is, if anything, even worse.

When he stops to think about it, he struggles to hold onto reality. Everything is scrambled and out of order. He does what he always does when it gets hard. He picks one thing he knows: he's still alive. And if he's still alive, he can still fight.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself not to give up. He forces himself to focus, to _watch_. He is keeping an eye on eveyone, but especially on her. He sees how she's struggling. Rhyanon's spells get weaker, and that damn emissary is so impossibly strong. The darkspawn concentrates his attacks on her. And Anders is scared. He's afraid for her. His heart is still racing, but that doesn't mean he knows what to do. Should he save his energy for healing spells? Should he rush in and attack, help her with the enemy? He's no battle mage. He would probably only get into the way, be more of a danger for her than an actual help. So he sends out rejuvenation spells in frequent intervals, trying to cover as many fighters as possible.

Rhyanon feels a sudden unnatural rush that sweeps away her tiredness and restores strength to her flagging muscles. She turns to look for the source, confused by the familiarity of that magic. Her brow wrinkles in confusion; she's almost certain she's just letting wishful thinking send her the signals she _wishes _were true.

And that's the moment of distraction that lets the darkspawn overpower her.

Anders curses. Panic threatens to overwhelm him. He rushes into the fight, not caring for his own safety. Without thinking, he dives through the darkspawn and soldiers fighting. He doesn't notice when a blade catches him in the side, he isn't even sure who hit him, whether it was darkspawn or Warden. All he sees is Rhyanon, on the floor, unconscious, bleeding... and it's his fucking fault! He'd distracted her with his own stupid incompetent inexperience, he shouldn't even _be _here and they both know it. _Just let her be okay_, he prays, he _begs_. Let her be okay and I'll disappear. I won't get her in trouble ever again... They are promises he can't afford to make. But that's never stopped him before.

He's breathing hard when he finally gets to her. He grabs her arm and drags her away from the initial danger. He's lucky that someone else has taken her place immediately after she went down and has the emissary distracted from him.

His hands fly over her in feverish haste. He pours every ounce of mana that he can get a hold of into her.

She's still breathing, that is a relief. But she's bleeding. There are broken bones. The emissary had crushed his huge shield into her chest.

Cold sweat washes down Anders' spine. She looks so fragile.

_ Concentrate! _he demands, but he's not listening to himself. He _knows_ he needs to concentrate, but it gets harder by the second. He mends bone, muscle, flesh, in hasty, panicked desperation, fueled by instinct more than anything. But even though he feels it working, even as Rhyanon is slowly coming back to, the panic inside him won't subside. His vision gets blurry. _No! Not now! Not yet. _He'll let himself be hurt later. He can fix it later. He can feel blood sticking to his skin, but it feels faraway. He ignores it. At least he tries to, as much as he can. His breathing is shallow, and his stomach churns. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. "Come on, Melly!" he whispers urgently. "Stay with me!" He prays and pleads and begs and slams his fist down hard into the stone beneath him. "Melly, do you hear me? Melly! _Rhyanon_!"

She nods, and pain fires through her body as she does so. She hears him. She tries to tell him so, but it just turns into a burning cough. Everything hurts. Breathing hurts. She struggles to pull in air. She tries to move, to get away from the hurting. But that just makes it all hurt even more.

"Don't move. Try to lie still. I'm here, love, it's okay..." Anders mumbles under his breath, barely realizing what he's saying. He feels her pain; he feels her struggling for air. He concentrates on her lungs, he tries to find the source. It's easier when he knows what to do, and he knows how to do this. He's not a fighter, but he _is _a healer. He can do this without thinking, and that's a damn good thing.

"Alistair?" Rhyanon manages to choke out. She tries to blink her eyes open, but all she gets is blurry spots of darkness swimming through this unfocused haze. She lets them slip closed again. Everything's buzzing. She feels cold. Really, really cold.

The blue light around Anders' hands flickers and fades. He moans.

And she hears him. In pain. She hears _him_, even through her barely-conscious state. She opens her eyes and ignores the pain. Ignores everything. "Anders."

She needs to help him. He needs help. He needs her.

She's got nothing left, though. No mana. Nothing. But she _does _have the lyrium. Another vial, tucked into the pouch at her belt. She fumbles for it, drinks it without thinking. And dumps that power into him.

Anders hisses when that sudden spike of power hits him. The energy floods his system no matter how he tries to fight it, tries to stop it. He knows what she's doing. What she's done. "No!" he cries out, desperate. He's too weak already, though. He can't stop her.

Rhyanon keeps trying. She can feel how much pain he's in. She can hear him screaming. It gets harder though. Slower. She can't control what she's doing. She can't see anything. "Anders, 'm sorry," she mumbles. "I can't..." The blackness closes in. She's breathing, but it's shallow and thready. Her heart is racing.

His trembling fingers reach out for her. He'd seen her pocketing those vials from the dead templars earlier. He needs to get a hold of one. One is enough. It's all he'll need.

His knuckles brush against cool glass, and he closes his sweaty palm around the vial. It takes almost more effort than he can spare to pull the stopper and choke down the bitter electric potion. The tingling sharpness cuts down his throat and floods him with an icy heat. He draws a sharp breath, struggling to adjust to the sudden shock of mana flooding his system. His vision clears, though it is still blurry at the edges.

He rests his palm flat on her chest, searching for the source of her pain.

There. There it is. He closes his eyes. Concentrates harder. He needs to do this right. She cannot die. He tries to be careful, tries to hurt her as little as possible. She's already in enough pain. But he tells himself she'll be better in a minute. He can do it. He's healed worse than some broken ribs.

"You'll be alright, you hear me?" he whispers, close to her ear. "I promise. You'll be alright."

She relaxes as the pain begins to fade. Her breathing evens out.

"Yes, that's good," Anders murmurs soothingly. "That's it. Breathe. Just breathe, okay? Relax. It's okay." His fingers comb through her hair. His voice is hoarse. Exhausted. "It's okay," he repeats, over and over.

Her closed eyes are twitching rapidly. Her heartbeat is still faster than it should be. She's dreaming. Her lips move, but make no sound. The words are unintelligible.

Anders breathes a kiss to her forehead and pours more healing magic into her: low, pulsing waves of rejuvenating energy. He's at the brink himself, nearly fading out of consciousness. He recognizes the sensation all too well. But he fights the blackness with all his might. He can't give up until she can rest easy. Until he's _sure._

His limbs are heavy, filled with lead. He can barely keep his eyes open anymore.

Rhyanon's heart rate gradually slows. She is safe. Stable. But she is going to be out for a long time. That lyrium crash is very, very rough.

Anders too allows himself to sleep, when he is finally sure that Rhyanon will still be there when he wakes.

* * *

><p>He nearly panics as he struggles to come to terms with where he is and what's real. He's in an unfamiliar bed, in a too-bright room. Pain lingers at the edges of his consciousness, but it's fuzzy, almost unnoticeable. Memories assault him, old and new, along with the rough empty grating <em>pull<em> of reaching for mana that he doesn't have. It feels as though he can't breathe, though he knows rationally that what his body is reaching for has nothing to do with air – he only _feels _like he's suffocating. He can endure this washed-out emptiness indefinitely. He has before.

He rubs the heel of his hand against his eyelid until it hurts and leaves dark spots to contrast with the sunlight streaming in through a large window across the room, and he pulls himself to his feet, still confused and overwhelmed, but _knowing _that there is someone more important than him. Always.

"Ah. You're awake."

Anders spins around and throws out a hand, already calling for energy to cast a protective shield or an offensive spell, and he isn't honestly sure which – but it doesn't matter because he can't do either. The instant he tries, his head spins, and he nearly trips. He manages to catch himself on the edge of the bed – it isn't graceful, but it's much better than landing face first in front of... he glances up with a sheepish smile.

"Erm..." he manages.

A dwarf with a braided red beard grunts in a way that makes it all too obvious that he's laughing at the human mage. The dwarf scratches himself in a surprisingly casual manner, yet he carries a clearly well-used axe strapped to his back, and his eyes are narrowed and obviously evaluating Anders. He snorts. "Dunno why they're all so scared of you, really," he mutters.

Anders frowns. "Who're you?"

The dwarf smiles. "Name's Oghren. I'm sure the Hero would've told you all about me, if she wasn't finally getting her beauty sleep. Heh. Go figure she 'as to be knocked out before she actually _listens _when someone tells her to go to bed. She told me to look out for you. Make sure you're alright and all."

The stream of new information is almost too much for Anders to handle. "Melly," he whispers softly. The dwarf shrugs.

"Yeah, I guess. Look, I know you two are... close. Girl's not as good at keepin' secrets as she thinks."

"She's alright?"

"If you are, she is."

Anders nods, then wonders if he is. He can move. That's a start. He needs to see her, talk to her. He needs to make sure she's okay. That hasn't changed.

"Tin-suits are after you. Both of you, maybe. Varel's holding them off."

Tin-suits. Panic flares in Anders' stomach. Templars. No. No, no, no... he was supposed to be safe from them. He made himself a promise. He will never go back with them, never, ever again. And he damn sure won't let Rhyanon get hurt. Not again, not _ever. _

"Aw, sit down, Sparklefingers. She ain't scared."

Anders doesn't care what the dwarf thinks. He nearly throws Oghren out of the way, in his haste to get to Rhyanon, in a room just across the hall from his. Still close. Anders forces himself to breathe a little easier. He knows the dwarf can't know what kind of threat he's so easily batting aside. No one can know, not like Anders does. He knows, and Rhyanon knows. And the last time he saw her, she was unconscious, nearly dead, pulling on lyrium enough to _really _make him scared. And the time before that, she'd... he shakes his head. No. Maybe he was wrong. _Maybe_... it's another reason to be scared, another reason to protect, another reason to have to talk to her...

She's conscious. Groggy, but awake, and he can feel the surge of her magic, still tainted and dark, and he almost wants to cry because he knows the templars can feel it too, they must be able to.

Rhyanon looks up and meets his eyes, and what he sees is all hardened warrior, but he can still feel _her _underneath: the stubborn, fiery girl that he knows.

"This is _my ground_," she snarls to the armored man who towers over her, ready to lash out physically or magically or both, practically daring her to give him an excuse to steal her power, and maybe her life. "You have no authority here."

Her voice doesn't shake at all as she says it, it never has. Rhyanon can _talk. _She can hold attention, just with her words, she can buy time, and sometimes, when she's very, very lucky, she can buy more than that, things no mage should be able to get.

"The Chantry holds ultimate authority," spits a _too-familiar _voice, and Anders breaks away from Rhyanon's gaze, trying not to let on how terrified and twisted that voice makes him feel. Everything comes crashing back on top of him. But he knows how to handle this. Maybe _he _can buy a little time. Unfamiliar certainty... that's all there is between him and Rylock.

"Leave her alone," Anders growls. He steps in front of Rhyanon, still bed-ridden, and he wants more than anything to sweep a bit of healing magic over her, to make sure he's okay – if she'd even let him. "You're here for me," he says to the dark-haired templar.

Rylock smirks. "I'm here for _both of you_," she corrects. She shakes her head. "This isn't a fucking game anymore."

"You think I'm gonna let you... what? Kill us? I sure as fuck am not going back to the Tower!"

"Anders, shut up!"

He glances at Rhyanon, who stands up and, although she is shorter by far than anyone else in the room, somehow manages to seem stronger by force of personality, something he's rarely managed. She takes things seriously. He can only get people to look at him when they think he's someone to laugh at.

Rylock reluctantly looks away from Anders, to the Warden Commander who used to tag along with him through the halls of Kinloch Hold. "Surely you can't think you'll get away with this."

Rhyanon ignores her and focuses on the other woman in the room, a queen who has been standing quietly, practically hidden by the armored templars, holding herself carefully and wearing a mask of practiced boredom. Rhyanon can recognize the tension in her though. "What are you doing here?" she askes pointedly, narrowing her eyes at Queen Anora. She doesn't care for any of the verbal flourishes or titles that she's supposed to add, and Anora raises an eyebrow at the breach of protocol, but she makes no further comment. "You brought _templars _with you," Rhyanon stresses. "Why?! If you were going to have me killed, why bother sending me all this way?"

"I have no desire to have you killed," Anora says stiffly. She takes a step forward and reaches out a soothing hand. Rhyanon twists out of the way. She has no desire to be friendly with this poisonous snake of a woman, the one who betrayed her and landed her in Fort Drakon, the one who actively worked to take the throne from its rightful heir. _Alistair_...

As always, the memories physically hurt. They suck Rhyanon's breath away. "You have everything you want!" Rhyanon screams. Sparks of power flicker within her; she keeps them carefully quenched, knowing that one slip is all the excuse the templars will need.

"The templars are not here for you. I honor my word."

Rhyanon snorts at that, but she bobs her head, acknowledging the point. "They're not getting him either," she says evenly. Her eyes flicker over to Anders, and it bothers her how tense he is: hands clenched tightly into fists, shallow, careful breathing, head bowed. He isn't fighting. She can practically feel his fear, radiating out from him in a desperate, wordless pleading that she understands intuitively.

"This Keep will not be allowed to provide haven for maleficarum!" Rylock snaps.

"This Keep is a fortress belonging to the Grey Wardens," Rhyanon reminds everyone. She speaks softly, calmly, the way she used to when she was practicing these skills at Irving's fireside, or arguing with the Knight Commander, constantly walking the fine line that kept him listening instead of seeing her as a troublemaker or a threat. "This is sovereign ground, owing alleigance to no crown. Not even to the Chantry."

"Magic is meant to serve man, never to -"

"I _know _the Chant," Anora snaps testily. "This woman may be a mage, but she is also Warden Commander and guardian of Amaranthine at _my _order, and the _only reason _the darkspawn didn't slaughter us all."

Rhyanon blinks, and snaps her jaw shut, hopefully before anyone else was able to notice her pure shock. "Thank you," she says softly.

Anora shrugs. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

"She is hardly a simple mage," Rylock protests desperately. "And neither is he. With all due respect, your majesty, you have neither authority nor expertise in this matter. And if you allow these two to remain here unchecked, they _will _be trouble that you can ill afford."

"Watch yourself, templar. I know this woman, and owe her, far more than I do you. Go home."

Rylock holds the queen's gaze, claiming with wordless audacity the power of the Church over all mortal leaders, but after a long moment, she nods.

"I'm not here for her," she admits grudgingly. The moment she steps toward Anders though, Rhyanon lashes out, _pushing _at the templar, catching Rylock – and Anders – unprepared.

"What the fuck are you thinking?!" he snaps, his voice shaking, as Rhyanon backs up her magical assault with a physical shove. She slams Rylock against the wall, unafraid, uncaring.

A wave of pain and energy crashes over her, forcing her to the ground, and one of the other templars twists her arm behind her back and slaps her, hard. Rhyanon twists, trying desperately to pull out of his grip, but she just isn't strong enough.

Anora watches, but makes no move to help. If anything, she seems slightly amused.

Rhyanon kicks backward, using the forward momentum to pull away from the templar. She wraps her arms around herself like a protective shield, and in this moment she looks every bit the fighter she is. "I invoke the Right of Conscription."

"What?" Anders manages to choke out.

Anora nods. The handful of templars in the room may not be aware of what exactly the words mean, but they know enough to understand the look that passes between the two woman, the fragile tension in the room. They stop, waiting for Anora to order them, in no uncertain terms, to stand down or drag the Chantry into a diplomatic standoff that Ferelden can ill afford.

"This isn't over," Rylock growls, and Rhyanon isn't sure if the threat is meant for her or Anders or maybe – probably – both of them. But she follows the queen out of the too-large bedroom, and the other men in flame-and-sword armor go with her, with the one she'd assaulted casting a reluctant glance back at her.

Rhyanon breathes again. Anders catches her and wraps his arms around her, and she lets him. "Wow," he murmurs softly. His breath tickles the nape of her neck. She nods, and squirms in his grip so that she can turn around and look at him. He looks better, still bruised and too thin, with tangled hair and ill-kept stubble clinging to his cheeks, but she's seen him look far worse, and he's even smiling, though it doesn't reach his eyes, which just look tired and confused.

She kisses him, without thinking, a ghostly touch of her lips to his. Anders pulls away, and the force of his motion _pushes _her away, a forced seperation that makes her reach out for him even more insistently, desperate for him to understand her, to not leave her alone. Tears sting her eyes before she can stop them.

"Melly..."

"What the hell are you doing here, Anders?" she snaps, forming her words into an accusation because what the hell else is she supposed to do?

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks, with bated breath.

"No! Maker, no!" she batters at his weakened muscles with closed fists. "Don't leave me. Never, ever. You promised!"

Anders sighs, and sinks onto her bed – the mattress is soft, and too easy to fall into, it doesn't feel solid enough, nothing does. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to stop the world from spinning.

"We don't get to keep promises," he spits. The bitterness in his tone shouldn't surprise her, but it does, somehow.

"I do!" she yells right back. "I _did_."

"I know," he whispers, barely audible. Somehow it makes her feel guilty. "Fuck, Mel, even after all this time, you're still trying to protect _me_. You're still getting hurt because of me."

"I'm not hurt," she insists. It's true: she's smart, she fights with words when she can. Another skill she isn't supposed to have, it's own kind of magic. "I'm not hurt, I just _won._"

Temporarily, a fragile truce, a bargain that can be rescinded. But knowing not to trust any deal... that's just something else they learn.

"What's the Right of Conscription?" Anders asks softly.

"What?"

"They... listened, when you said that. It means... what? That you want to make me a Grey Warden? Like you?"

Rhyanon nods. "It'll keep you safe. At least, it's the only thing I can do. It'll keep you away from them."

"How do you know?" he asks. Suspicion and hope and fear all tangle up inside him; the question he really wants to ask he's afraid to put into words.

Rhyanon just shrugs, not speaking because she doesn't need to. She curls up in his arms again, perfectly still, her eyes slipping closed – letting him catch her. _Because I'm still here_.

Anders sighs, running his fingers up and down her spine, listening to her breathing.

"You saved my life," she whispers, finally. The words break Anders out of his still-exhausted trance, his illusion of safety. He brushes a stray lock of blonde hair out of Mel's face, and looks into her eyes, deep blue like the lake they'd grown up blocked by and dreaming of. His thumb rests at her jaw line. Every instinct in his brain screams at him to run away before he hurts her, before she gets hurt because of him, before she demands something from him that he can't give. But he only nods.

"Yeah, 'course I did. I promised, didn't I?"

He leans in to nip at her lips with a kiss again, but she pulls away – as he'd known she would. Rhyanon has always been the only one who _forces _him to take life seriously, even when he _can't_.

"You said -" she starts, but he presses his finger to her lips to silence her, and shakes his head.

"I know what I said."

"No promises," she says. Her voice is soft, but hard.

"Dammit, Melly, I _know _what I said."

She only smiles, knowing she's got him trapped. It doesn't matter what he said. She knows what he _meant_.

"We're going to have to talk," he tells her, one of those moments where he takes advantage of the age gap between them, putting an obnoxious kind of authority into his voice, knowing she won't fight him on it. She nods. Still no words, but its own kind of promise, laced into the motion. He's more right than he knows.

"I know," she finally agrees. "Later. I promise." They are used to long separations – Rhyanon might argue that they are more used to being apart than together; maybe she _will _argue that. But she's still afraid to let him out of her sight.

"Rhyanon..."

"I _promise_." She sighs, pressure creeping at the edges of her vision, and despite herself, she sags in his arms, before forcing herself to push him away, because he will ask questions she doesn't want to answer, bring back memories she desperately needs to forget, and he will do the same to her, because that is how they work. "Anders, I have to -" she stops again, unable or afraid to put into words everything that she knows that she doesn't. Instead, she simply waves halfheartedly, toward the half-opened doorway leading into the empty hall, the fortress, falling apart around them, and it's her job to put it back together. To keep _everyone _safe, while they both stand here talking around the certainty that they've never even been able to keep each other safe. They buy occasional reprieves sometimes, but it is not enough, and they are both marked by the scars and nightmares and unsaid words and fears that tally the costs of those long separations.

"You don't have to do this by yourself," he reminds her, sounding tired. "You're _not _by yourself."

His voice breaks slightly as he says it, and Rhyanon spins around, reaches out for his hand, squeezes it. "You're not either," she says simply. There is so much she has to do, out there in this fortress that she doesn't want, but in here she feels safe. "Anders, there's something I should tell you..." she trails off, fighting memories, seeing another man behind her eyelids, one who still doesn't know her as well as Anders does, and never will, one who cared too much about rules even as he pretended he didn't – but then, maybe that's all of them. Just because she's not _supposed _to tell him the truth about the Joining... that's never stopped them before. She sighs. She knows Anders can tell she's hiding something, because he squeezes her shoulder and pulls her back into the room, refusing to let go of her. "This isn't a free pass, Anders," she admits, in a low murmur. He shrugs. _Nothing ever is. _"You might _die._" She realizes, as she says it, that she is more afraid of that than he probably is.

He holds her gaze, his hands wrapped tightly around her waist, and he kisses her again, this time more passionately. He tastes like salt and lyrium and lemons and pine trees; he makes her dizzy, and Rhyanon can't remember when she started thinking of him _that way_, for the first time, she's not afraid he doesn't feel it back. Her breathing stutters as she starts to cry again. He wipes away her tears. "I trust you, Rhyanon," he whispers**.**


	3. Chapter 3

They don't waste any time, getting the Joining started. They can't afford to wait. Rhyanon knows that Anders needs the protection that being a Warden will buy him, and that the people of Ferelden need the protection of the Wardens, more than just her. They call her Hero, assign her the status of a legend, but she damn well knows that she is just one person, and not nearly enough. She isn't even sure she wants to lead an army; she only knows that no one else can, or will, not until she finds someone who is better at this than she is. She wonders if this is how Duncan felt, those nights when they sat quiet around the fire on the way to Ostagar. She wonders if he'd known he was on his way to die, and she wonders if he was glad for it.

She thinks of Alistair's grief for the man she had barely known, the man who had saved them both, and familiar helpless anger tries to spark inside her belly, a keen edge quick to kindle now – quicker than it used to be. It's easier to reach for offensive magic now; she is beginning to forget what it was like to be locked down by the Chantry. But she can't forget it all. And she thinks that's a good thing. The darkspawn are a simple target, but they are not the only one.

Rhyanon glances up, across the flickering firelight, to catch Anders' eye. _She _shouldn't feel nervous, and he is not supposed to have to make her feel better, but it's too easy to fall back into the old roles. She shakes it off – hopefully quickly enough that the other recruits won't catch it. She turns to Seneschal Varel, pointedly ignoring Anders, pretending he's just another militia volunteer, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the danger he's in – refusing to remember that the danger of him dying isn't new. She swipes the cup out of Varel's hand more suddenly than she ought to, but the old man seems to take it in stride. He bows his head and lets her take the lead. Rhyanon takes a breath, steels herself, and forces herself to meet the eyes of the other warriors standing in front of them; all of them battle-hardened, and warned of the danger they face. She refuses to lie to them. The Joining will be a _choice_. Even Anders is allowed to back out, she will not force him to stay. She never could.

He doesn't back out though. His eyes flicker from hers to the cup in her hands, and he reaches out and grabs it before she can protest, and drinks it before either of them can change their mind, before she can even say the words she's supposed to say.

Rhyanon watches him slip into a not-entirely-conscious state – it's unnerving, like watching him suddenly fall into unnatural sleep, but he remains active; alert in the Fade. She can feel the sudden spike of energy wrapping itself around him – she's tempted to reach out and help, with healing magic of her own, but she doesn't. He isn't _hurt_, not exactly – his body, and the primal knowledge of his innate magic – is reacting to the taint that should not be part of him.

It's unsettling, watching the Joining from this perspective. She doesn't remember much about hers, not the actual event. She kneels down next to Anders and runs her hand through his tangled hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. She knows – because Alistair _told _her – that mages survive the Joining even less frequently than most potential Wardens do. But Anders will survive. He has to. That's what he does. Rhyanon squeezes his hand, and she convinces herself that this few seconds of touch is enough.

She stands up, surprisingly reassured by the open smirk behind Oghren's bushy red beard. She rolls her eyes and shoves the cup at him. Seneschel Varel seems taken aback by the lack of ceremony, but Rhyanon knows that these people understand how seriously she is taking this event. It is a battlefield communion, and Oghren ackowledges it as such by choking down the darkspawn blood without a word. He doesn't even belch.

He too drifts into the active sleep that is too familiar to Rhyanon to be frightening – she wonders what it's like for the dwarf, who cannot touch the Fade, according to all reports. She wonders if that makes it easier or harder. She wonders if he's lonely, or afraid. She always is, when the templars steal her magic away from her.

She curls her hand more tightly around the chalice and holds it steady as she tells herself to be calm. She watches carefully over these men – her friends. Neither of them are seizing, and she can see them breathing with regular – if shallow – inhalations. She doesn't know how long it's supposed to take, but she remembers the night that she became a Warden – how sudden and loud and frightening it was when Ser Jory and Daveth the thief – a man who might even have become her friend – succumbed to the darkspawn taint. A quick glance at Seneschal Varel proves that he is not worried either. But then, she's never seen him look worried, not even when the Keep was actively being attacked. Maybe he doesn't ever get worried. Maybe he just hides it well, the way people tell her she does.

She turns back to her one last waiting soldier; a woman she trusts despite never getting to talk to her as much as she wanted to – she kept getting distracted, she never really knew what to say, she's used to keeping secrets, she's used to people using what she says against her, or just not caring about her as anything more than a tool to be used.

Mhairi watches her with intent gray eyes. She looks determined, the same way she did when she alone went out to prepare Rhyanon for an ambush in a castle that was supposed to be safe home ground. She reaches out for the chalice before Rhyanon can even ask her if she's ready or if she wants it. She sips it carefully, slowly, and in that motion Rhyanon recognizes someone else who has unconsciously assumed the ritual of Chantry services, after performing those same actions over and over. Maybe that's something else to ask about, Rhyanon begins to think, as she allows herself to breathe, her mind to wander, secure in the knowledge that her people are safe, from at least this threat, though there will be many more in the future.

And then Mhairi begins to choke, to seize. There are choking black tendrils surrounding her, not visible, but present all the same. They spike painfully within Rhyanon's blood. It's the taint, ripping her apart from the inside, but it rips Mhairi apart faster, claiming everything that made her human and gave her life.

There's no way of telling how much time has passed before Rhyanon becomes aware that she is crying. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps. She's fallen to her knees, beside Mhairi, who is unnaturally still. Mhairi is dead, and Rhyanon knows that she should have stopped it. She should never have let this happen. Whispers and screams threaten to tear her apart, she can't block them out, and she _tries_. Eventually, through the hollow emptiness of apologies she can't voice, someone's warm strong arms wrap themselves around her.

Rhyanon fights her way out of that grip, thrashing and flailing, needing to vent all of her anger and fear. She sits there, panting and and shivering with a cold that isn't entirely physical. Anders' warm fingers run up her arm, and she squirms as she pushes backward against the gentle touch of his magic: calm and sleep... He ignores her protests. "Rhyanon," he whispers soothingly. "It's not your fault."

She wants to fight him on that too, she _tries _to, pushing against him, shoving... but Anders doesn't budge. He simply holds her, until she has no more energy left to expend. His fingers trail through her hair. There is a lump in her throat, hot and wet, and she can feel the hot pinpricks of tears in her eyes. Anders kisses her, gently, on the forehead. The contact sends a ripple of hot, panicked energy through her, but she doesn't push it away.

Anders waits for her to relax, for her breathing to slow into a gentle rhythm. He holds her and he pointedly ignores the disapproving eyes watching them, even as he fights the surge of ingrained panic and the alarm bells ringing in his head that this is not allowed, that being close to him means that Rhyanon will get hurt. She's _already _hurt, isn't she?

Anders stares at the body of the dead woman just over an arm's length away. He watches without focusing as the seneschal moves with brisk, efficient movements, covering Mhari with a blanket pulled from somewhere, and carrying her away with the help of a couple of the Keep's few remaining soldiers. Out of the corner of his eye, Anders can see the dwarf – Oghren – downing the contents of an impressively sized flask without seeming to notice or care what anyone else may think. Anders is very, very tempted to go and ask for some of that alcohol. His head feels as though it's being split open. There are flashes of light that throb in time with the pain. He's fairly certain that the world is spinning. His stomach heaves and protests, his body rages; wanting rest, needing relief. It's a sensation he recognizes all too well. The fragile barrier he can feel on the edges of his perception is just as familiar, and even more frightening.

He glances down, once again, at Rhyanon, his friend, who is sleeping with a peacefulness that he tells himself is only partially magically induced. She must need the sleep. As badly as he does. Yet he's used to fighting to keep himself alert and awake, and it seems his mind and body won't let him sleep. Not yet. He curls up, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees as his eyelids begin to droop. He's vaguely aware of the Seneschal returning, lifting Rhyanon up and carrying her away. He thinks the man may have even asked him for permission to do so, and Anders must have granted it. He wants to trust these people. He wants to trust Rhyanon. He wants, desperately, to believe her when she tells him that this place is safe for him, for both of them.

He slips into bed, close to Rhyanon's room. It's too quiet to sleep. The heavy weight of uncertainty pounds against his skull, keeping him awake even through the nausea, the pain, and the utter exhaustion. He spends a few hours not-sleeping, rolling over and staring at the ceiling, telling himself he _needs _to sleep. He places bets with himself, and loses, but he doesn't flee from the room until the first rays of dawn.

He rewards himself by following the already-familiar path he'd taken that first day here. Up to the roof. Toward the sky. The cool breezes comfort him. He tells himself he doesn't feel the pain as strongly, but that may be wishful thinking. The half-awake dreams and images and sensations flickering through his mind are different from anything he's ever touched before, and that's unsettling. He's not afraid of them, not really, although some logical part of him is aware that he should be. There is a constant urgency pressing down on him, a sense of threat, warnings of an invasion that consumes the whole of the world, leaving behind nothing but a wasteland, a burning emptiness. He recognizes the unique signature of the darkspawn, he's seen – and felt – it, through the Blight-decayed landscape of Ferelden. But it scares him less than the certainty of pain and inprisonment that awaits him if the templars ever catch up to him – _when_, always when, and he knows that. It scares him less than the bodies Rhyanon pulled him out of. The darkspawn, the taint of being a Grey Warden – he turns the words over his tongue – scare him less than the monster he's become.

He stands there for what feels like a long time, just breathing, listening to the sounds in the night. He hears an owl, far away, and the rustling of leaves. His eyes scan his surroundings with instinctive alertness, filing away every potential escape route, heightened senses waiting for the slightest motion or shadow. He immediately focuses on the huddled figure leaning over the battlements on the other side of the roof.

He instantly recognizes her. She hasn't noticed him yet and he takes the time to study her, wondering if he should go back inside and leave her to her thoughts. She looks... sad, even from this distance. She looks sad most of the time, really, and when she doesn't look sad, she looks angry. Untouchable. Not for the first time, he wonders what's happened to her in the time since they last saw each other. It's been more than a year. A long time. He knows how much people can change in a year. He knows how much he's changed.  
>He takes a hesitant step towards her, then stops again. He's still not sure if he should approach her. He can't read her anymore. He doesn't know if his presence would be welcome. While he's still hesitating, she raises her head. Her eyes lock onto his, robbing him of the chance to retreat unnoticed. He swallows, nervous, and he forces himself takes another step toward her, then another. He tells himself that it's stupid to be afraid, that they can never be scared of each other.<p>

"Mhari's death wasn't your fault," Anders whispers softly. "You know that, don't you?"

Rhyanon nods. It scares her that he's scared of her. She doesn't want him to be. But she understands why he is. She feels lost. Everyone comes to her for answers, but she doesn't have any. She has no idea what she's doing. She can barely function at all, most days. It takes all the control she has to look like she's okay. "You still know where the stars are, Anders? The North Star?"  
>It's cloudy, but she can find that one, it's bright enough. She'd gotten better at looking when she was camping every night through the war. He's the only reason she thought to look, though. He's the one that knew the stories. And never needed a chart.<p>

He points without looking. After escaping the tower that last time he has spend many nights under the sky, watching the stars. "You think I'd forget?" he asks softly.

Rhyanon smiles a little and shakes her head. She plays with a few sparks of light, letting them dance between her fingers. She still can't quite meet his eyes. She's afraid to. It's been so long. Maybe too long.

Anders watches the sparks hovering over Rhyanon's palm. He settles on the rail across from her and conjures a few sparks of his own, bright green spots in the darkness. He sends them her way, lets them circle and chase her orange ones. They did this when they were kids, this chasing game. The more sparks, the more difficult. It needs concentration, quick reaction, a tight control over your magic. She'd loved it. And she's smiling now, for the first time since he's been here. She's good at this game. Better than he is, now. It takes all his concentration to even remotely keep up with her, but it's not long at all before she has absorbed every last one of his green sparks. It makes him laugh softly, surprised and a little proud. "You've gotten good. I think I'll have to practice more."

"You have to plan," she tells him. "You don't think ahead."

No, he doesn't. She's right about that. Planning is for people with a future. "Plans're boring," he says lightly. "I'm a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy. It's much more interesting. You never know what you get."

"You never care what you get, actually."

Rhyanon sees Anders cringe in response to that verbal shot and that immediately makes her feel guilty. She shouldn't be mad at him. Maker, if anything, he has every right to be angry at her. She just stole his entire life from him, without even telling him about it. She's just as bad as any templar.

Anders leans back against the railing, not looking at Rhyanon, not saying a word. He's so used to having an answer to everything. Some witty remark to make people laugh and distract them from their line of thinking. But words fail him with her.

Rhyanon doesn't know what to do either. Anders used to be the one to tell her things would be okay. She always knew he was lying, but she misses that now. He'd seemed certain anyway, somehow. It helped. Not for long enough, but she can't ever seem to find that hope by herself.

She tells herself she'd Conscripted him to keep him safe from the templars, but the truth is much simpler than that. She did it for her own selfish reasons. She needs him with her. She needs him.

She squirms a little bit, uncertain whether to move closer to him or not. She wants to, but he might not want her. "I'm sorry, Anders," she whispers. Barely loud enough to hear. She isn't even sure what specifically she's apologizing for. Everything, basically. It's a long list.

He smiles, sadly. For some reason it always comes down to one of them being sorry for something. Everything. It shouldn't be that way. They should be able to tell each other everything without having to regret things. It used to be like that, when they were children. Before everything became so hard, so dark, so dangerous. "Don't be sorry," he mumbles. "not for telling the truth."

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, you know..."

It's easy for him to say those words out loud, for some reason. He doesn't talk about these things with anyone. But then... she's not _anyone_, now is she? She's been his lifeline for so many years. Maybe is still. _He needs her._

Rhyanon nods, moving closer to Anders, so that she's leaning against the railing next to him. It feels really good to be outside. Really, really good. It shouldn't feel special anymore, but it does. And it should be that simple. She should let it be that simple. She misses more than Anders, though. She can't sleep without hearing Alistair's laugh. She can't get the image of his death out of her head. The pain of his absence is sharp in her stomach, constant and agonizing. And she can't tell Anders about it. She can't hurt him anymore.

She kicks the base of the wall, traces the lines between the stones on the wall. She doesn't know what to say. There's been plenty of times when she didn't know what to say to Anders, but it's never _hurt_ this much. He says he missed her, but she left him behind. And that's her fault. There is so much guilt in that.

He catches the restless hand that's painting patterns on the stone between them, squeezes it. "I missed you," he repeats, looking her in the eye this time, his voice steady, determined. "You don't know how much."

That just makes her feel even worse. She tries to pull away. "You wouldn't if you knew..." she stops. The words are already out and she can't pull them back. There are things she's never told him. Even from Tower days. She's been keeping secrets for longer than he knows. It was only possible because he kept running from her, but now she's taken away that option.

Anders lets go of Rhyanon when he feels her trying to get away. Her reaction hurts, but he tries to ignore the feeling. He knows that kind of reaction. He's done it so many times before. "If I knew what?" he asks, as calmly as he can manage.

"The kind of person I really am."

"And what kind of person would that be, Melly?"

"The kind of person who kills people without caring."

Anders flinches. She doesn't really believe that, does she? She's the most caring, compassionate, lovable person he ever knew. The fact that she sounds so guilty when she utters those words is proof enought that it's not true, that she _does_ care. "What happened, Mel? Tell me what happened to make you think that."

"You hear what they call me, Anders. Commander. General. I fought a war. And I survived when almost no one else did. Denerim was decimated. A whole city, just... gone." A whole city, and one person in particular. "Those people followed my orders. Armies listened to me, like I knew what I was doing. Who the hell am I to tell people to throw their lives away for me? I was supposed to die in the Tower!"

Her words scare Anders, more than he thought they would. Or maybe it's just the force behind them. There are so many questions he wants answered, so many loose ends that need to be connected. But that last part scares him the most. She was supposed to die in the Tower. Why? What for? Was she there during the rebellion? Did she do something stupid?

"Why?"

He's not able to utter more than that one word. his thoughts are too incoherent for anything else.

Rhyanon shrugs. She could lie. That's her first thought. And that's exactly the point she's making. She is the kind of person whose _first instinct_ is to lie.

The truth is equally complicated, though. There is a tangled web of things she doesn't want to tell him. They all lead to each other.

"Because I used blood magic." She says it like a challenge. She can't go on pretending that she's an innocent kid. She _isn't_. And he should know the truth about her. He should get away from her. She's dangerous. She doesn't deserve his trust.

Anders almost chokes. He heard that wrong. He knows he did. There is no other way. Not her. She would never... "Say that again," he whispers, barely audible.

"I'm a blood mage."

There. Nice and simple. No questions or shades of gray, right? It doesn't matter how many times or why or how it happened or what you meant. She knew what she was doing. It's not like you can do it by accident. That's not how it works and they both know it.

Anders can't sit still anymore. He starts pacing. Everything inside of him screams at him that this is not true! It can't be true! It can't be! Not her!  
>But it is. He knows it. He's known it... forever. Somehow the knowledge is there and it scares him, it makes him furious and sad and desperate. Not because of what it <em>means, <em>but because of what it means _for her_. Blood magic is dangerous. It is forbidden for a reason. It is too tempting, too powerful. You can lose yourself in it and that is what scares him most of all. That she loses herself. That _he_ loses _her. _

He knows the dangers. He feels them every time he heals someone, the temptation to use what's already there, at his fingertips. And he was tempted more than ever there on the battlements when he was so afraid she could die. He's afraid. So very afraid. And he's angry... no, he's furious! She should know better than to mess with blood magic!

Rhyanon watches him pace around. She can _feel_ the anger radiating from him, and she tells herself she doesn't care. She's known all along how he feels about this. He's so much stronger than she is. So much _better. _He was always able to help her despite the fact that everything he'd gone through was always, _always_ worse than the little things that seemed big enough to swallow her. "Go ahead, Anders," she whispers. "Tell me I deserve to die."

"What the hell are you talking about?!" he snaps.

His screaming brings back the memories. So clear, and so strong. Her shaking hands holding tight to a razor blade. Whispers and screams in her head. The ripples of water in the bathtub. And blood. So much blood. It stopped hurting after a while and things got dark and it felt... good. She didn't have to care anymore, she didn't have to outrun anything, or lie, or wait, or want, or be afraid.

She's never told him any of this. She's _always_ been careful not to tell.

"I didn't want to die," she finally whispers. "I thought I did, but I didn't. And it was the only thing I had."

She feels the same way now. That power inside her is the only thing that reminds her she's special. Worth something. Those times when she needs that power come more and more often now, and she is scared as hell. She can't always stop herself.

Anders understands. All too well. Unconsciously, he rubs at her left arm, at the fine white scars there. "You have to stop it," he pleads. "It kills you, I know it does. You can't die, I... I need you, Mel. I wouldn't know what to do if you were gone."

She nods. Agreeing without fully realizing she's agreeing. She knows what it is to need people. To need him. She covers the scars he's been tracing with her other hand. It's maybe the first time she's longed for the long robes that hide stuff like that. She crosses wraps her arms tightly around herself, suddenly feeling much colder. "What are you talking about?" she murmurs. Her voice trembles. She's fairly certain she already knows the answer, and it scares her. The way he talks feels much too familiar. She moves closer to him, standing next to the railing, and she peers over it. Long way down.

"I know what it feels like to see no way out. But this is no solution, Mel. It's the safest way to... become an abomination. It's just one small step from here. One slip. Just one, no matter how tiny. I'm _begging_ you, Mel..."

"I'm not an abomination, Anders!"

Her voice sounds far too loud given that they've been barely whispering. Her stomach hurts. She wants to be angry at him. She _is_, a little, in that instinctive reaction. But mostly she's just terrified. That he doesn't want her anymore. Or that he's right.

"You're just like them," she cries. "You don't even care..." She clenches her hands into fists, very tight, and concentrates on breathing. She _does_ care, even though she shouldn't. She can't afford to. He's going to leave her. Everybody leaves her.

"Then stop pitying yourself and stop this madness!"

"You act like I want to! Like it's fun or something. Maker, Anders, what is wrong with you? It's not like I do it all the time! Only..." She swallows hard, shakes her head. The voices are still screaming, All flashes of memory. Her heart starts to race. She starts shaking. "Only when I have to. If I didn't, we wouldn't be standing here."

"There is nothing that would justify blood magic! Nothing, Mel, not even..."  
>Again he breaks off. He means it, but he can't say it. Not even to save someone's life. Not even hers.<p>

"Not even ending the Blight?"

Anders pulls back. He didn't expect that. He's shocked by that new perspective. But he's not willing to give in. Maybe she's right. Maybe it was worth it. But he's too stubborn to admit it. "There's always a better way. There has to be."

"Maybe there is. But I didn't have time to figure it out."

"Who is he?" Anders is not exactly sure where that question comes from, but he is suddenly very sure she used blood magic to not only end the Blight but to save someone in particular as well. He can't figure out any other reason for her to do such a thing.

"What?"  
>She's very confused by the sudden shift in conversation. And guilty. Because of course there's an answer to that question, but how does he know that? She's been very careful not to mention it, ever. Not that they've talked about much in the past few days. Too busy avoiding each other<p>

"You didn't do it for the sake of everyone else. There's... someone special, right?" The question strangles him. He thinks of that fight on the roof. That name. She had called him Alistair.

The grief Rhyanon has been so carefully avoiding suddenly overwhelms her. It hurts too much to cry about this. There's just this emptiness inside her, like an open pit just waiting to swallow her. Who cares why she did what she did? It doesn't matter anymore. It was supposed to be her that died, they'd agreed. He'd agreed. "Does it matter?" she asks Anders. Very, very carefully. She somehow manages to keep her voice from shaking. "There isn't anymore."


	4. Chapter 4

Rhyanon makes up some half-hearted excuse about going inside – to try again to sleep, although they both know she won't – or to meet with the Keep's small complement of soliders, to plan how to defend, and rebuild. Honestly, she's not exactly sure _what _she says, but Anders doesn't stop her, clearly in no mood to fight despite the obvious weakness of her argument.

She locks herself into the bedroom she's claimed as hers; a large, once-opulent shell of a space that is now mostly empty, reflecting the state of the rest of the Keep surrounding it. She paces around without really seeing, idly picking up knick-knacks or flipping through books as she passes near a side table or a chest of drawers. She tucks her long hair behind her ear, then sighs. She can't stay hidden up here forever, not without going insane. What the hell is she so scared of, anyway?

She pours some water from the jug waiting on the night table and splashes her face, but it doesn't wake her up at all, so she fumbles around in her belt pouch for a rejuvenation potion, drinks it, and then splashes her face again, before walking out into the hall.

The dining room is a refreshing hub of activity. Familiar voices ring through the room, and Rhyanon hovers in the doorway, taking it all in. A tired smile lights up her face as she catches sight of Anders, casually swiping a boiled egg from Oghren's plate. The dwarf grunts, but turns to his tankard rather than argue with the mage. It relieves Rhyanon more than she wants to admit to see her friend sitting at the table with that familiar cocky grin on his face. His food barely touches his plate before he inhales it and reaches for more.

Rhyanon hovers, not wanting to ruin the moment, not wanting to admit that she's still afraid to talk to him. Her head hurts. Her heart hurts. She hides in the corner of the room until she's _forced _into it, by Seneschal Varel, who practically wields his mounds of paperwork as a weapon. He hovers over her and drones on and on about costs and numbers and ancient defense plans, as though she knows what any of it means, as though she's capable of _caring_, right now. "Shut up!" she finally snaps.

The pompous seneschal steps back, balking a bit. He raises an eyebrow in disapproval but Rhyanon plows right ahead. "A woman _died_!" she insists. "So you'll forgive me if I don't feel like dealing with your petty beareaucratic bullshit!"

There is a hushed silence in the room, and all eyes turn toward her. Rhyanon ignores them. She slides into the bench across from Anders, and begins piling her plate with scrambled eggs. Anders snickers, and he doesn't even look embarrassed when she glares at him.

Oghren belches, and begins playing with his empty flask. "Good for you," he grunts. "Only sayin' what we're all thinking."

Rhyanon nods.

"Still," Anders adds softly. "You probably... have to work with him. Don't you? I mean, he knows what he's doing."  
>"I know what I'm doing."<p>

"Okay."

"Since when do you care about stuff like that? Working well with people? Keeping your mouth shut."

"I don't know," Anders admits. "I'm not sure I do care."

"Fine." Rhyanon puts her hands between her knees and avoids looking at everything. Oghren shoves a plate in her direction, but the dwarf knows better than to try to make her do anything she doesn't want to do. She'll eat if she's hungry.

"Are you... mad at me or something?" Anders asks carefully.

"I don't know," Rhyanon admits. "No," she amends, after a moment. "Why would I be mad at you?"

"I don't know." His voice doesn't exactly falter, not in any audible way, but she _knows_ him. She hears – or maybe feels – the subtle uncertain jealousy in Anders' voice. "I'm not sure if I want to tell you that I know what I'm doing, or that I don't." It's one of those completely unpredictable bursts of total honesty that he does so well. Rhyanon cracks a smile despite herself.

"Yeah, that sounds familiar."

She glances up to see the seneschal still watching her with his judgemental glare, and, suddenly feeling emboldened, she gives him a casual wave. At her side, Oghren chuckles, loud and obnoxious and enough to make Rhyanon appreciate him more than she ever has before.

Anders reaches out and squeezes her hand, swiping another piece of bacon from her plate. "I don't care what you _tell_ me," he says, chewing carefully. "I just want..." He shakes his head, and swallows. "I don't know. I don't want things to be weird between us. I just... I want to be your friend. I want us to still be friends."

"We _are_. No matter what, okay? We're always friends."

Rhyanon nods, wrapping himself in comfortable familiarity, letting it last for as long as possible. Which turns out to be about half a minute.

"Excuse me? Commander?"

Rhyanon glances up to see a nervous elven boy in servant's livery. He ducks his head, and shifts his feet, refusing to make eye contact with her.

"Look at me," she orders gently.

The kid does, though he's obviously uncomfortable doing so. "The Guard sent me ta find you, Ser. They found someone trying to break in."

Rhyanon frowns, confusion rushing through her, uncertainty prickling up her spine. Memories of assassins following her all through the Blight... "What kind of person?" she asks guardedly.

"Please, just follow me."

Rhyanon casts a sidelong glance at Anders, then nods. She follows the boy, through the crunching autumn leaves that swirl around her feet.

"They locked 'im up in the dungeon," their guide announces.

Rhyanon feels Anders tense up briefly, but by the time she actually looks at him he's covered the moment of discomfort, walking casually through the grounds, a smile on his face. They descend into a secret, shadowed stone hall, a sub-basement hidden from the rest of the Keep. It's quiet, and their steps grow subdued.

"Thank the Maker you're here!" Rhyanon jumps as the guard's loud voice breaks the silence.

"Is that him?" she asks.

The man stares at her from behind sturdy bars, with a satisfied smirk. He says nothing by way of introduction, but who else would be sitting in a cell, looking entirely too comfortable.

Anders hovers protectively over Rhyanon's shoulder as she studies the intruder. And he can't help but be a little satisfied that for once it's someone else locked up.

The man looks to be somewhere in his late twenties, a few years older than Anders. His fine features and eyes remind the mage of a bird of prey. Greasy dark hair hangs in tangled clumps that brush his shoulders. He stares at Rhyanon without blinking, clearly not intimidated in the least.

She meets his gaze and says nothing. She's not intimidated either. "He got any weapons?" she finally asks. The guard gives a brisk nod, and holds them out for her inspection.

Rhyanon takes the dagger from the guard's hand, studying it carefully. The crest carved into the handle matches the paintings she's seen around the Keep. "Did he steal this?"

"It's _mine_."

"It's got the Howe family crest on it."

"Nothing gets past you, eh?"

"You're still going to pretend it's yours?"

"It _is _mine. All of this is mine. My land. My house. Until you killed my father and took it for yourself."

"Your... father?"

"I'm Nathaniel Howe."

"So you're Rendon's son?" She doesn't wait for him to reply. He hardly needs to. "Your father was a traitor," she snaps. "And a despicable man besides that."

"You don't know anything about him! Or me."

"Oh really?" Rhyanon crosses her arms over her chest, staring down this would-be assassin with the same stubborn determination that got her through the Circle, and the Blight. "You came here to kill me, didn't you? To get your revenge?"

The man – Nathaniel – doesn't flinch. "I... thought that's what I wanted. But now I'm not so sure."

Once again, Rhyanon marvels at whatever weird quirk this is that makes people be honest around her. Maybe that's some kind of magic, all on its own. It doesn't make her feel much better, though.

"Well, I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to think about it and make a decision, locked up down here," she spits. Behind her, the guard leans over menacingly. Nathaniel doesn't seem too bothered though.

"Rhyanon..." Anders says softly.

She spins around. "_What?_"

He shrugs. "People listen to you," he points out softly.

The watching guard waits for her decision, and Rhyanon suddenly realizes what Anders is saying: this man's life or death rides on her _mood_. Her stomach tightens into a knot. She tries not to let on how unsettled these dungeon walls make her, as she glances at the prisoner. "Aren't you scared to die?" she murmurs.

Nathaniel holds her gaze, looking at her and only her, and answers the question with a subtle shake of his head. Rhyanon has learned how to read body language, to judge threat, to _understand_, and something about Nathaniel Howe bleeds away her anger. Though he glares at her and the tense muscles of his body radiate hostile anger, she... trusts him. She understands somehow that she means her no harm, not really. He may talk a good game, about wanting to kill her, but she understands being able to do something but not wanting to, and she swallows hard and looks down at the dirt beneath her feet as she recognizes that she also understands wanting to die.

"I'm not going to kill you," she announces.

Nathaniel just smirks, with obnoxious confidence, like he'd been certain of her decision before she even made it. "What are you going to do with me?" he asks easily. Rhyanon glares at him, annoyed by his uncaring, almost flirtatious attitude.

"Nothing," she snaps. How can he not care about this? It's infuriating!

The guard unlocks the cell, letting the door creak and swing open. Nathaniel doesn't move. Rhyanon watches him for a long moment, trying to predict his actions. "Go," she finally orders.

"No," he demands.

"What in the Void is wrong with you?" Rhyanon spits. "I'm _letting you go_."

"Sure. But I don't want to go."

"Are you _serious_?"

"This is my house, not yours."

Rhyanon can't help it. She actually starts to laugh. "Do you _really _think I'm in the mood to deal with this... petty, childish _bullshit_? I have so many larger problems, I don't even know where to start."

"I want to be a Warden."

"You're insane."

"Maybe. But you can't afford to turn down help, can you?"

"You're infuriating."

"I've been told that before."

"You're right," Rhyanon growls. She somehow manages to it into a threat. "I can't afford to turn down help. And you _want_ to be a Warden."

"I know what you think of me -"

"No you don't."

"Alright, fine. Maybe I don't. And that... intrigues me."

"Whatever."

Rhyanon leaves the cell door open, waiting for Nathaniel to follow her. He does. "So who're you?" he asks Anders. The mage is still hovering over Rhyanon, and Nathaniel's not ignorant or blind enough not to notice.

"This is Anders," Rhyanon interjects smoothly. "He's another Warden."

"I wasn't part of killing your dad," Anders says. "I didn't know anything about it."

Nathaniel lifts an eyebrow, and Anders almost snickers. It's way too easy to push people's buttons.

"If that's your idea of small talk, it's not funny."

"It wasn't really supposed to be funny," Anders admits. "I'm not really good at this. Meeting people. Making friends."

"We're not friends."

"No. I guess we're not."

"But I didn't have you killed," Rhyanon points out. "That's a start, isn't it?"

"Sure," Nathaniel agrees carefully. That's a start."

One morning, when Nathaniel's out sparring with a few of the other Wardens, Rhyanon stalks into the Seneshal's office. "What do you know about him?"

"Nathaniel? Not much. His father sent him off to the Free Marches over a decade ago."

Rhyanon drops into the chair in front of the desk, marveling at the man's ability to answer her question without glancing up or even seeming to pause in his paperwork.

"What? The old man couldn't stand his charming personality?"

Seneschal Varel actually smiles at that quip, and Rhyanon smiles in return. Her confidence grows with every successful attempt to put someone else at ease.

"He's been asking about you too, you know," the older man warns.

Rhyanon rolls her eyes. "He can get in line," she murmurs, with unexpected seriousness.

The truth is, she's been trying to avoid the whispers and rumors that swirl around her like the leaves kicked up by the winds outside. The visit from the _Queen _a few weeks ago had only added to the drama. It feels like everybody is constantly watching her, and Rhyanon expects to be revealed for a fraud any second. It wasn't like this during the Blight, when overwhelming danger kept her moving at a breakneck pace, and she didn't have time to second-guess herself, and she couldn't afford to get it wrong. Now, here at Vigil's Keep, she feels less like a soldier and more like a bureaucrat. The stone walls cage her in. But that's familiar too. And it's easier to shake off the claustrophobia when she knows she can leave the fortress whenever she wants.

"I'm going out," she announces. Varel blinks behind his thick reading glasses, but says nothing. It seems he's already beginning to get used to her blunt honesty and quick changes in subject matter and mood.

"What shall I tell Master Howe, if he comes looking for you?" he finally calls, as Rhyanon is already halfway down the hall.

"Tell him to figure it out," she yells back.

The smile remains on her face as she pulls a cloak tightly around herself and heads out into the grounds.

Voices ring out into the courtyard; blacksmiths and builders studying the damage – both old and new – to the castle structure. She slips past them easily enough; they are not looking for her, and she is used to drawing the minimum amount of attention to herself. Her boots stick in the half-frozen mud puddles beneath her feet, and her breath puffs out in front of her, in small clouds. The stables are warmer, though mostly empty and clearly neglected for some time. At least the quiet here is comforting, rather than foreboding. She breathes in the scent of hay, and horse sweat. Dust motes dance in the air, making it look and feel heavier. She walks past the few occupied stalls, to the one in the corner, where her own warhorse waits. The stallion snickers as she comes near, looking at her with large dark eyes. Rhyanon smiles. The horse relaxes and snickers yet again as Rhyanon rests a hand on his flank. "I just came for a visit." She speaks softly to the animal, pressing her body closer to the warmth the horse provides. "I'll bring you a treat next time, I promise."

The horse lowers his head, and Rhyanon swears he's glaring at her. She rolls her eyes, and picks up a brush, beginning to groom Chocolate's dark brown hair. The repetitive motion calms her, as does the horse's presence. Animals are easier than people. They don't tend to make promises, and they forgive you when you break yours.

"I didn't think I'd find you here," Anders says softly. Even though he's careful not to intrude, Rhyanon jumps anyway. Her heartbeat speeds up and a reflexive burst of mana crackles atop her skin. Chocolate, though well-trained and hard to spook, still shies away from the intense and uncontrolled display of magic.

"Sorry," Rhyanon murmurs. She's not sure if she's apologizing to the horse, or to Anders. Both, maybe.

"I'm not here to get you in trouble, Mel," Anders reminds her. They can't get in trouble for casting anymore.

"I know." Rhyanon composes herself quickly. She always does. After a moment, Anders wouldn't have ever known she was anything but calm. But he knows her. "What _are_ you doing here?" she asks, still brushing the down the horse.

"I followed the cat," he admits.

Rhyanon frowns, but the question she's about to ask is answered before it can form on her tongue, as a tiny meow comes from a small pile of hay near Anders' feet. "It's nice to see you making friends," she teases.

"I have friends," he insists, trying to hard to pretend to be offended by Rhyanon's remark.

She crouches down next to little fuzzball. The kitten blinks at her and reaches out a tentative paw, swatting at her fingers. Rhyanon smiles. "It's cute."

"Can I keep him?"

"Why're you asking me?"

"I dunno, aren't you my Commander now?"

"Does that mean you're going to listen to me?"

"I don't know. It depends on what you say."

Rhyanon carefully picks up the tiny cat, who nuzzles up in her palm, and passes it to Anders. He runs one finger over the tiny fuzzball's head, and he looks happy. Rhyanon leans back against the gate, and stares at the two of them: her best friend, and the little cat. "Keep him." Anders' grin grows even larger, and Rhyanon rolls her eyes. "Like you were gonna wait for my permission anyway."

"He fits in my pocket." The cat snuggles into said pocket, and falls asleep. Rhyanon gives her horse one last pat, and walks over to Anders. She leans against him and sticks her hand into his other pocket.

"You don't think he has a mother or anything?"

"I dunno. I don't think so."

"That's okay. He's got you."

"Yeah, you'll have to share me," Anders teases gently, wrapping his arm around her. "Are you okay with that?"

"Yeah." Rhyanon nods. But she doesn't let go of him.

"Are you crying?" Anders asks gently.

She shakes her head, but when Anders wipes her cheeks, she recognizes the tears. "Sorry," she says again.

"Don't say sorry. Don't _be _sorry. You have nothing to apologize for."

Anders gently guides Rhyanon to a cluttered bench crammed into the corner of the stable. He quickly tosses the tools and old scraps of fabric and random clutter to the floor, and sits down. He draws his knees up to his chest and leans against the wall, smiling at Rhyanon. And, just as he'd done when they were kids, he traces gentle lines of magic up her spine, and kisses her on the forehead. Her breathing evens out, though she is still crying. "You can tell me about him. You know? If you want to."

"I can't. Not yet. Okay? Maybe... someday. I don't know."

"Okay," Anders agrees. "Whatever you want."

"Thank you," Rhyanon whispers. "Thank you so much, Anders. I don't think I could do any of this if you weren't here."

"I'm glad I'm here," he tells her. The honesty washes over him, like a splash of cold water. It refreshes him. So much of his life has been made of running away. But Rhyanon is different. She's always given him a place to stay, someone to come back to. They are still keeping secrets from each other. But that's familiar too. Anders slowly untangles his fingers from Rhyanon's, and pushes himself to his feet.

"Where're you going?" she asks carefully.

"I'll be back," he promises. The words come easily, and the truth in them buoys his mood. "There's just something I have to do."

Rhyanon holds his gaze, studying his face for some hint of what that 'something' might be, but then she nods. "Oh. Okay." There are things she should do, too.

Anders pauses, turning back. Seeing her sitting there all by herself suddenly feels all wrong. "Do you... wanna come with me?" he asks, somewhat nervously. "To Amaranthine?"

The city isn't very far. And there are so many times he'd wished he could take her exploring. She's been out in the world for so long now. But maybe there are things she hasn't seen. Things only he can show her.

"What're you doing in Amaranthine?" Rhyanon asks suspiciously.

"Nothing." He doesn't fool her, of course, but he just wants her to relax. He wants to see her smile. "I swear, Rhyanon, it's no big deal. Come on. Saddle up that horse."

She puts her hands on her hips and glares at him. "I'm not just going to follow you to Amaranthine for no reason," she demands.

"Then follow me because I'm asking you to."

"Fine," Rhyanon agrees, rolling her eyes. Anders' smile makes her concession worth it. She climbs into the saddle with a comfort that still surprises her. Even Anders comments on it. He manages to stay on his horse, but there's clearly no joy in riding, for him. She tells him she used to love spending time with the horses when she was a child. These flickers of memory still feel awkward to her, like something she's supposed to hide, or feel guilty about. But Anders seems genuinely happy to listen to her talk.

Their mounts plod along the road at a gentle walk. No one questions their presence on the roads, but that doesn't stop Anders from glancing over his shoulder, sweeping the land with a constant alertness that borders on paranoia. Inside his coat pocket, the kitten mewls.

An icy rain is pouring down by the time the two of them arrive at the gates of Amaranthine. To both of them, the city seems overwhelmingly loud and impossibly chaotic. Anders tucks a strand of scraggly hair behind his ear and casts a nervous glance toward Rhyanon.

"We should find someone to look after the horses," she decides. Anders nods.

Rhyanon keeps her cloak pulled up, as much to disguise herself as to stay protected from the weather. They duck into the stable of a nearby inn – a tiny and clearly timeworn place, but cared for well enough. A boy with large ears and an even larger, gap-toothed smile takes their horses, nearly bouncing with excitement as he does so. The sudden presence of a man yelling at him does very little to subdue the boy's constant stream of chatter. Rhyanon smiles at the child's open friendliness. It's a refreshing change of pace.

"Come in from the cold," the man says, eyeing her and Anders as he wipes his hands on a rag tied to his belt and sends the boy off with their horses, with a wordless nod.

Anders fiddles with something hidden in his pocket, as Rhyanon negotiates payment. It's slightly unnerving to watch the girl he still thinks of as a little sister so casually handling a truly frightening amount of money.

"Come on," Rhyanon says cheerfully. She grabs Anders' hand and smiles at him. He smiles back, projecting a confidence he doesn't feel. It feels nice, holding hands with her. The little boy's laughter and the old man's knowing smile fill him with warmth.

The horses whicker as they walk past, and Rhyanon tucks herself closer to Anders. Outside, the rain pours down, but it doesn't feel uncomfortable when they're forced to walk out in it. "What are you _doing_?" Rhyanon laughs. They are tantalizingly close to the door of the inn. Light and sound bleed out into the muddy alleyway in which they stand, but Anders pulls her back, stopping her from going in.

He holds her close, running his fingers through her hair, sending cascading raindrops washing over her. He leans down suddenly, and kisses her. His lips brush hers, but there's no hesitation about it. When Rhyanon doesn't protest, he grows more confident. He pulls her closer to him, then steps backward, pulling them underneath the rickety overhang, to keep them sheltered from the rain. His body is warm enough that Rhyanon doesn't even notice the cold and damp. She feels like she's melting into him. He feels safe. But her common sense kicks in at about the same time as she realizes she needs to breathe. "What are you doing?" she repeats, in a choking stutter. She shoves him away, as panic and guilt overtake her.

Anders slips, stumbling into a puddle. He catches himself before he can fall, but his eyes widen and his face flushes with embarrassment, and there's nothing to be done about the mud splashed all over his clothing. "I'm sorry," he mutters. "Rhyanon, I didn't think. I'm really, really sorry."

Her first instinct – always – is to forgive him. But her instincts and her actions continuously war. "You didn't drag me out here as some kind of... date?" she screams instead. "Did you? I mean, Maker, Anders! Please tell me you're not that stupid!"

"It's not a date," he mutters. Without looking at her.

He pushes his way into the halfway-crowded bar, deliberately choosing a table tucked into a corner, not big enough for two. Fine. Rhyanon sits at the bar proper, feeling more than seeing the crowd dissapating around her, as though repelled by some invisible force. She observes every little thing around her, while trying not to be obvious about it.

There's a girl behind the bar, probably the innkeeper's daughter; she looks a lot like the younger boy in the stables. Rhyanon feels a familiar twinge, the absence of something she tries to pretend isn't missing from her life. She doesn't think about her brother much. Trying to remember her family just hurts too much, like she's trying to reach for something that just keeps slipping away. It gets worse the more she tries to force it, so she just... doesn't. Not anymore. Except she's thought about Kirkwall twice today. There's a weird nostalgic vibe about this place, this day. And it's not the good kind.

"Do you want something?" the girl asks, with a shy little whisper. She has to stand on tiptoes to see over the bar. Rhyanon smiles, the girl's hesitant hero-worship helps put things in perspective. The girl reminds Rhyanon a little of herself at the same age.

"Do you have any tea?" The girl nods, although a confused frown wrinkles her features. "I guess people don't order tea here that much, do they?"

"Not that much."

"What's your name?"

"Lucy."

"Aren't you a little young to be serving drinks, Lucy?"

"I dunno." The kid puts a teacup in front of Rhyanon. The stuff is bitter, and not nearly warm enough. But Rhyanon drinks it gratefully all the same. "Is it true you really killed the darkspawn?"

Before Rhyanon can answer, Lucy is pulled away to help serve the regulars who are waving her over. Rhyanon watches her handle the men with surprising ease. Whatever shyness she thought she'd observed has dissapated. Except for the flickering glances Lucy keeps throwing her way.

"What do you think? She got a crush on you?"

Rhyanon smirks, taking in the new bartender. Another brother, clearly. Rhyanon wonders if this place is family-run by choice, or if it's the only option now that the Blight has people barely clinging to survival. "That your sister?"

"Yeah? It's obvious, eh?"

Rhyanon nods. The older brother studies her carefully, and fills her mug without waiting to be told. "The old arl never would've stepped foot in here," he points out suspiciously. "And I dunno, he'd probably have had me killed or something if I served him tea this bad."

Rhyanon squirms uncomfortably. "I'm not trying to be in charge of you or anything."

"But you are."

"I'm just a person."

"Maker, I hope not. We gonna need a lot more than 'just a person' to bring this city back to life."

"Do you put this much pressure on all your guests?"

"Only the ones wearing armor with griffons on it."

"I'm not," Rhyanon points out. She's not wearing armor at all, just old riding breeches and a shirt and her cloak.

The boy shrugs. "The griffons're temporarily invisible. Just like the real ones, I guess."

"Do you know a lot about griffons?" Rhyanon asks, sipping from her mug. The tea only gets more horrible each time she tries it.

"Nah, not really. Just stories."

"Me too. I used to read a lot."

"Oh yeah. Because you grew up in a Circle, right?"

"Yeah," Rhyanon says. She tries to keep her voice steady, but it's still weird for her, that anyone could reduce the totality of her life to such a casual conversation piece. It's not the kid's fault. She brought it up, didn't she? She finishes her terrible tea, drinking down the hot liquid so quickly that she almost chokes. Everything comes crashing down all at once. She realizes that she has no idea what she's doing here. Anders dragged her out to this stupid city and she followed him and then he just abandoned her. He's just across the room, but the distance doesn't especially matter as much as how that distance makes her feel. Especially since she's the one that pushed him away, actually.

"I think I need something stronger than tea," she announces, to no one in particular. She presses the heel of her hand to her closed eyes and sighs, then bites her lip. She spins around on the barstool.

"Here you go," the bartender announces, placing a tiny little shotglass in front of her. "It's brandy. It's terrible according to the few Antivans who've ever tried to drink it, but I think it's... not that bad." He doesn't even hide the lie, but at least that lets Rhyanon prepare for it.

"Thanks." Rhyanon holds up the shotglass in a quick salute and then downs it. It settles quickly in her belly, and it feels a lot better than tea.

Across the room, Anders nurses his drink, flipping a bit of parchment over and over in his fingers. He swears he can feel the words fading, the edges of the material fraying and beginning to shred because of the constant motion. He already knows what it says, of course. The awareness of possibility and danger war inside his body. It's a familiar sensation. He drains his mug of ale and wills himself to accept the drowsy kind of calm that the alcohol can provide him. He crumples the parchment up into a tiny ball that fits comfortably in his fist, and though he can feel his stress and tension prickling at the back of his neck, he forces that away as best he can. Through sleepy eyelids, he watches Rhyanon, chatting easily at the other end of the bar. She reaches for her drink, some harder liquor than anything he regularly imbibes. The bright liquid sparkles whenever the strategically placed torchlights over the bar catch in the clear lines etched in the tiny shotglass. Rhyanon's blush grows more furious when she drinks.

As Anders watches her, his thoughts continue picking apart the news hastily scrawled down and even more hastily thrust into his hand: somewhere in this town, somewhere _close_, he swears he can already feel it – his phylactery – the last link binding him to his templar hunters, is hidden away. He can destroy it forever, break the chains...

A cold shadow of fear sweeps over him, panic curled up like a hissing snake inside his belly. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe. His free hand fumbles for his already empty beer mug. He is _not _going back to the tower. Never ever. No matter what. He repeats the words silently until he believes them.

He calls for a refill on his mug of ale, to help steel himself. The bartender watches him with a smirk – no doubt he's seen his fill of men stocking up on liquid courage. Anders nods his thanks, then rummages around in his pocket for a handful of coins. He drops them on the bar, and slips off the barstool, heading out into the rainy night. He pauses a moment to glance through the window at Rhyanon. She hasn't noticed his absence. Good.

He stalks through the darkened, water-slick streets, grateful for the cover that the weather provides. Huddling with a cloak pulled tightly around him will not look suspicious on a night like tonight. He squeezes through narrow alleyways, and taps at an unmarked door made of rotting wood pocked with holes. There's no answer, and as Anders stands there, blowing into his hands and stamping his feet, attempting to warm himself as the minutes slip slowly away, whispers of panic grow louder and more insistent.

What if it's a trap? Of course it is. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and gathers his courage.

"Anders, wait!"

"What the hell are you doing here?" he snarls, whirling around to face Rhyanon.

She stands in the mouth of the alley, that same infuriatingly familiar stubborn look on her face. "Do you think I'm a complete idiot?!" she shouts, and Anders shrugs. He shakes his head, sending droplets of rain trickling down his face.

"You're not supposed to follow me!" he yells back. _Not ever_!

"Dammit, Anders, this isn't the Tower!"

She thinks the old rules don't apply. But she's wrong.

"It might as well be," he mutters.


	5. Chapter 5

He takes his hand off the rickety door handle, heaving a deep sigh. He presses his forehead gently against the door. When Rhyanon rests her hand on his shoulder, he doesn't shake her off.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

Anders sighs again. He fights off his reflexive instinct to lie, to say that nothing's wrong. She wouldn't believe him anyway. "I think I'm about to walk into a trap," he announces. He sounds resigned to the knowledge. Rhyanon frowns. "Quit looking at me like that. I'm not an idiot. I have enough experience walking into the templars' hands."

"Is that what you're doing?"

"No."

No. And yes. He _is _walking into the trap, but it's not like she's implying. It's not because he wants to, or because he can't see exactly what he's doing. It's because he's already caught. He's never quite gotten free.

"Why didn't you tell me what you were doing? Why you wanted so badly to come to the city. You didn't have to hide it."

Her voice is soft, but Anders can hear the broken plea in it, and he understands. The familiarity is enough to stop him in his tracks. He's been here before, he's done this before, with her, a thousand times.

"I know," he sighs. "Rhyanon, it's not the Tower. You told me that."

"So why didn't you tell me?"

"Because this isn't your fight. You're busy."

"I'm never too busy for you, and you sure as hell should know that!" Rhyanon stops chasing after him, but somehow the fact that she _isn't _following him only makes Anders second-guess his choices even more. He stops, huddled under the tiny overhang at the lip of the roof that does nothing to protect anyone from the weather. "Maker, Anders, if anyone in the world understands what you're trying to do, it's me."

"I know that."

"But you're still trying to shut me out."

"Old habits, I guess." Anders sighs. "Look, we'll talk. I promise. I swear. Just... this is kind of... time sensitive."

"The trap you're walking into is time sensitive," she repeats carefully.

"Rhyanon, it has to be now. I've been looking for this for _years_." Rhyanon can't help it. She starts to laugh. She leans back against the wall. She tries to steady herself. Her bitter snickering turns to a bitter resentment. _He never listens to her_. "I have to _try,_" he insists. Of course he does. So what if both of them are certain this is a lie, if there is even the tiniest hope of breaking the hold the Chantry has on him, he has to take that chance, doesn't he? This is probably why he didn't tell her. He was so certain she'd try to stop him.

And she should. She knows she should. But she's never been able to before, so why would she think that she could now? At least this time she won't let him face whatever's about to happen all by himself. She knows what a phylactery means. She knows why he has to do this, better than anyone else in the entire world.

Anders sees it when the fight goes out of her. This too is familiar. She doesn't look at him, she stares at the rain-soaked street instead, and he can feel the mana she gathers just under the surface. She won't say anything else, she won't argue with him. She's angry – he can tell that too, and it's not like he can blame her. "Thank you, Rhyanon," he whispers softly. She doesn't respond. He reaches out for his own mana, taking in slow and shallow breaths as he does so. He tries to focus, to silence his own worries. He's afraid, it would be stupid not to be. But it's too late to turn back now.

He half-closes his eyes and pushes the door inward. The lock is flimsy and easy to break through with just a little bit of magically-enchanced muscle power. He shoves the heavy wooden door inward, nearly rocking it off its hinges as he does so.

The small room is coated in a thick layer of dust, but as his eyes adjust to the darkness he knows that someone's been in here recently. There are patches of clean floor where someone's footprints had left a path. "Namaya?" he calls out softly.

His words hang in the air, and go unanswered.

Behind him, Rhyanon pushes her way into the room, her every movement sending bursts of sound into the oddly empty room. Her heart beats rapidly in her chest, her every breath and movement painful with heightened anticipation. She can feel something, on the edges of her perception. Not magic, exactly, but something like a tightened string. This is the trap.

She sighs heavily, squeezing her eyes shut. "Templar," she says, her voice low and controlled.

Anders nods. He feels it too. He knows who it is, if only because she has not yet reached out to steal his mana away from him. He takes a few careful, steady steps forward, into the back room that is almost entirely pitch black. He recognizes her by scent, and feeling, the familiar shape of her, an outline traced in shadow, black on black.

"Hello, Rylock."

She waits, not with sword drawn, ready to fight, the way they both know she should be if she was doing her job properly. She simply... waits, for him to come to her. And he does, he can't help himself. She tenses up as he approaches, her stiff-backed posture growing even more unnaturally still. Her dark hair is coming loose from the tight braids that had once bound it. Anders feels a warmth flow through him at the memory of tangling his fingers through that hair. A long time ago, in the dark. The warmth is not a pleasant sensation. It engulfs him. It's like being burned from inside.

"Fuck you, Anders!" Rylock spits. "I thought you were smarter than this!"

"Maybe I did it on purpose," he says softly.

He can hear Rhyanon moving around behind him, but he ignores her. For now, the world falls away, until it is just him and Rylock, being pulled by strings outside of their control. One more time. One last time.

The templar makes no move toward him. She's here alone. She must know he won't hurt her.

And maybe, once upon a time, that would have been true. "Rylock, I..." He doesn't know what he's about to say, but she doesn't let him finish the sentence anyway.

"I have to take you back!" she insists, and she stands up in one sudden burst of motion, throwing a crate away from her as she does so. It crashes against the warehouse wall with a violent boom that echoes for a few long moments.

"No, you don't," Anders replies calmly.

Fire flashes in Rylock's eyes. He knows how she feels. Like she doesn't have a choice. He willingly walked into this trap. He knows that feeling of helplessness all too well. It's the one familiar thing between them. "There's only one way this can end," Rylock murmurs. The words barely escape her lips, but Anders nods anyway, before she's even finished speaking.

Maker. She sounds so resigned, and he understands. He used to let him find her, after all. Now he's found her. He is _never_ going back to the Tower, and she must know that. There is only one way this can end.

"I know," he says softly, and the squeezing pressure around him has almost nothing to do with the Smite she's belatedly used to defend herself. The force of it makes him stagger, but he catches himself easily. Even now, she's giving him an out.

He catches her eyes, which have grown cold and determined. She's drawn her sword.

He bows his head, waiting for her to come to him.

"Damn it, Anders!" she hisses. "What in the Void are you _doing_?"

He shakes his head, not answering with words. He doesn't know. He's not thinking or planning, and neither is Rylock. They're both _reacting_. It's all they ever do.

Rhyanon stands at the entrance to the room, watching the scene play out. She feels as though she's spying on something obscenely intimate. There is something between them, something she's suspected but never allowed herself to fully believe. There's no denying it now, though.

She could end this. Rylock hasn't so much as looked at her since they arrived. She's not stupid enough to believe that the templar doesn't know she's there, but the woman isn't fighting. And Rhyanon isn't afraid of her. It's a strange kind of freedom, realizing that she has absolutely no uncertainty about her ability to overpower a templar. To kill her even.

She waits, because Anders hasn't made a move either. "What are you doing?" she whispers, echoing the templar's tries to grab onto her mana, and it's like moving through a slow fog. The power that should be right at her fingertips slips out of her reach. Pain spikes through her head and body as she tries and fails to overpower the antimagic burst Rylock had sent through the room.

Her hiss of pain causes Anders to startle out of whatever had been paralyzing him. He takes a few steps backward, placing himself between her and Rylock, protecting her from whatever the templar intends to do. "I'm not going back," he insists, again.

Rylock holds his gaze, and though her fingers are still wrapped tightly around the weapon, she still does not attack him. Rhyanon draws her own sword. Rylock's eyes widen. Evidently, she'd forgotten – if she'd ever known – that Rhyanon had spent much of the Blight teaching herself how to fight when she could not rely on magic. "Leave us alone," the Warden Commander growls.

"You know I can't do that."

Rylock advances on Rhyanon, and Anders wakes up. He lashes out with desperate intensity, fighting with all of the power in him, a brutal, fully physical attack. He cannot reach for mana; the aftereffects of the Smite still burn inside him, making him dizzy and uncoordinated. But even still, he is stronger than Rylock, bigger than her, more powerful. He's always been more powerful. When did he let himself forget that?

She struggles in his grasp, wheezing for air as his fingers close around her throat. She tries to throw him off of her, but he only tightens his grip. Eventually, she stops struggling. Her body goes limp.

Anders lets go, and she falls to floor with a heavy thump. He closes his eyes, barely breathing himself.

Rhyanon takes his hand, without waiting, without asking. She says nothing. What is she supposed to say?

"It was a trap," Anders says, aloud. He feels cold. Rylock had never planned on leaving this room. If she had, she wouldn't have come alone. She was never that stupid.

"Anders, it wasn't your fault," Rhyanon whispers.

He nods, although he's not sure if he agrees. "Let's just go," he begs.

Time passes slowly, in a trickle of haphazard movements and unspoken words. It seems to take forever to walk back through the rain-slicked streets to the stable where their horses are waiting. At their approach, the black-and-white mare Anders had been riding whinnies, clearly picking up on his urgent desire to be away from this place. He rides as quickly as he can back in the direction of Vigil's Keep, letting the horse carry him rather than paying attention to where he's going.

Rhyanon follows, slower and more carefully. But she doesn't chase after him. She knows Anders, enough to know when she needs to give him space to move. To run away. There is a desperate fear in her that if she lets him out of her sight, he won't come back. She tells herself to trust him, and she says a little prayer.

She takes the ride back to Vigil's Keep slowly, letting Chocolate set the pace. The horse runs when he wants to run, but he slows down soon enough. The warhorse has been trained for long-term stamina, and he knows better than to push himself needlessly, especially when there is no visible threat. He seems to sense Rhyanon's bitter mood, and he snorts and whickers at her periodically throughout the hours it takes to get from the city to the Wardens' fortress. There are some who would argue that riding through the night alone the way they are is dangerous, but Rhyanon is competent enough to defend herself against any threats that may manifest themselves. In truth, she's itching for a fight. Nothing happens though. She's left alone with her spinning thoughts and creeping exhaustion. The shadows of the Fade pull at her. She swallows a potion from the pouch at her belt. Anything to chase off those voices.

As they approach the Keep, the servants greet her with smooth efficiency, and clearly they've been trained not too ask too many questions about her whereabouts. If they whisper any rumors about what she's been up to, they do so out of her hearing. Rhyanon walks slowly through the quiet, mostly empty halls. She asks everyone she meets if they've seen Anders, receiving a negative answer each time. She tries not to let on how worried she is. When she finally goes to bed, near dawn, he still hasn't shown up.

She wakes up only a couple of hours later, when the bright sunlight streaks in through the curtains she'd left open. She hastily pulls on fresh clothing and ties her hair up without paying much attention.

When she gets to the dining hall, she stumbles upon Ogren first. He belches loudly, his alcohol-soaked breath familiar and foul, despite the early hour. Rhyanon crosses her arms across her chest, and glares at him. He stares up at her, not daunted in the least, and takes another large swig from one of the many flasks and tankards he carries tucked into his armor. She scans the crowd of people sitting scattered through the room in small groups of three or four, with great gaps of unused table space between them.

"You oughta go talk to 'im," the dwarf grunts, nodding toward a bench at the far end of the room, where Anders sits alone.

Relief surges through Rhyanon, but she glares at Oghren. "I don't need you to tell me what to do," she snaps.

He shrugs, and begins to wander off. "Fine by me," he mutters, as he heads out into the hallway that will take him to his own quarters, to drink some more or to sleep his way to nominal sobriety, either one.

Rhyanon doesn't miss the fact that the dwarf's sudden exit leaves her alone with Anders. He thinks he's so smooth. He used to do the same thing when it was Alistair she was trying to avoid talking to. Her chest constricts with familiar pain, but she forces the sensation away easily enough. Practice makes perfect.

Anders blinks up with unfocused eyes as she approaches. She tries to study him as she sits down on the bench across the aisle. Still giving him space, if he wants it.

"Are you... okay?" she whispers, and it's a _stupid_ question, but for the life of her she can't think what else to say.

Anders snorts, and knocks back another tankard. She can feel his mana buzzing, though she knows as well as he does that trying to grab control of it in the state he's in will be all but impossible. Maybe that's the point.

She slips into a seat across the table from him, and helps herself to her own generous helping of raw, awful dwarven ale, stingingly potent.

"I guess I thought it would feel different," Anders admits, softly.

"Freedom?" she asks. She traces idle patterns in the groove of the dark wooden table, not looking at him. They never did find his phylactery, but she has to hope _something_ came of... whatever that was last night. She wonders if he'd still insist he didn't kill those other templars, when she first met him at the Keep. She's seen now what he's willing to do. What they _have_ to do. What other choice is there?

Anders nods, and Rhyanon is tempted to reach for him, but... she doesn't. Instead she tucks her fingers into a fist, because the distance between them is thick and solid and only growing wider, spinning out of her control.

"Aren't you the one who told me it's never what you think it'll be?" she points out bitterly.

He doesn't answer, but she sees the tiny smile creep across his face, the memory shared becoming more _real_, more solid, here in this place where they do not have to reach for the Fade to be together. That's something, at least. They're together. She'll take whatever she can get.

"Did you love her?" Rhyanon presses.

"I... Melly, how can you _ask_ me that?"

Her chest constricts with anger and hopeless frustration, all the rage she wished she could have thrown against the templars in all the years that they hurt him and she was helpless to stop it. The whiplash scar across her shoulder throbs and resonates with the knotted tangles that she knows mark him, although she can't see them when he wears heavy shirts with long sleeves, self-conscious now in a way he never was in the Tower. They're still _there_, this bond of blood that ties them together. She shielded him worth her own body, threw desperate flickers of healing magic against the templars' wards to keep him breathing, a layer of extra support to buoy him through the crashing waves of overwhelming pain, just enough to pull him from the razor-line of barely-alive. Her fear for him burned sharp as a knife, a gut-wrenching physical agony, but they have always been defined by their _separation_, all the things they _could have been, if..._

Where he went, she could never follow. But Rylock did. And it _kills her_ to admit it, but she owes the templar a debt, _knows_ that Rylock should not have died, _knows _that killing her is tearing Anders apart, another deep cut that will never heal fully.

She curls her knees up to her chest at stares at a random point on the far wall with a frightening intensity as she touches the Fade, feels it feed her, rides the crest of light and fire that burns in her veins.

Anders looks up, his eyes wide. He feels it too. She laughs, a harsh and bitter chuckle. A long time ago, in a place far away, she would _never_ do this. Simply daring to claim this _power_ as her own would be enough to invite punishment. They can't touch her anymore.

The knowledge takes away some of the anger, and with a long breath she releases the mana she holds. But she can still feel it, close as an old friend.

She reaches out to take his hand, and he reaches back, squeezes her fingers, his presence warm and solid.

"I needed her, you know," he tells her. "She needed me."

Rhyanon nods, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair, the same color as his, behind her ear. "I know."

He wraps his arms around her, and she lets herself breathe, letting him shield her even as a brief commotion ripples through the hall. Anders tenses up, and Rhyanon stills, as several men push their way through the room. She still can't hide the flash of fear that is her first reaction to the presence of templars. There are four of them, a whole hunting squad.

"We seek the Warden Commander," one of the men announces. She's not wearing her armor or any identifying insignia, so maybe he doesn't who he's looking at. Rhyanon highly doubts it, though.

She glances quickly at Anders, but he gives her no visible reaction. She frowns. She doesn't recognize this templar, and his accent is vaguely Orlesian. He is not here from Kinloch Hold.

Before she can come up with a reply, Seneschal Varel runs up to the visitors, looking flustered. "Excuse me, Sers. You must announce yourselves-"

"It's alright," Rhyanon interrupts, never taking her eyes off of the templars. Varel clears his throat awkwardly, but steps to the side, allowing the men to speak.

The leader of the contingent of templars studies Rhyanon once more, with a slow, appraising look. She tries not to squirm under the focused intensity of his gaze. "My apologies, Serah," he says smoothly.

"What are you doing here?" Rhyanon asks. She draws herself to her full height, radiating cold authority, defending herself and the men under her command.

The templar recognizes the weight of her presence. He does not quite defer to her, neither backing down nor breaking her gaze, but he speaks to her as an equal, or perhaps even as something more: a warrior. Someone he respects. "We've been sent to join the fight, Warden Commander. We wish to volunteer ourselves to join the Grey Wardens."

A few heartbeats of silence pass, as Rhyanon tries to process that information. "_Why_?" she finally blurts out.

The templars cast uncertain glances between them. Rhyanon notices one in the back of the group glaring at Anders. She glances back at her friend, he is smirking and taunting the templars, letting a mana wisp play between his fingers. She glares at him too. He lets his power snap out, but he doesn't look the least bit apologetic. She sighs.

"How soon can we be ready for a Joining?" she asks Varel. A spasm of guilt wraps its icy fingers around her heart as she asks. It's been barely a few days since Mhairi's death, they have not even given her a proper sendoff. But she cannot afford to turn away good fighters. Not even templars.

"The ritual can be performed tonight," the Seneschal answers gravely. Rhyanon nods.

"Good. Can you find these men a room? Near the other recruits."

"It will be done."

She watches them go, noticing that the younger one – the one Anders had been taunting – is slow to follow his brothers-in-arms. He does not look away from the mages until he is out of the room. Rhyanon lets out the breath she'd been holding, then sits down on the tabletop, trying to think this through.

"Templars," Anders sighs, as he sits on the bench just to her left. Rhyanon glances at him.

"I have to, Anders. It's... politics." She's not stupid enough to imagine that a squadron of templars have come here of their own accord. They've been _sent _here. Someone in the Chantry wants to keep a close eye on her and Anders. She has the authority to send them away, most likely, but doing so would only bring questions. And more templars too, probably, and those will not be so... diplomatic. No, this is the only option she has. A veiled threat, presented as a gift.

"Maybe they'll die in the Joining," Anders spits bitterly.

Rhyanon says nothing, though her stomach flips. She wouldn't wish that on anyone. Well, there are _some _templars. But not these. They're just men. They haven't proven themselves as allies or enemies, not yet. She shakes her head. "You don't mean that," she says softly.

Anders doesn't say anything, but she knows she's right. She knows how much he's struggling with Rylock's death at his hands. She doesn't want anymore death, not so soon. There has been so much already.

Perhaps the Maker is watching over them after all. No one dies that night, not the four templars, nor the four commoners who've come forward offering their lives to protect their families and their homeland. The men are farmers and craftsmen, not fighters, but Rhyanon will not send them away. It is not for her to judge their strength, the Wardens' own right of passage will take care of that.

The Joining is always somber, but tonight even more than ever it is a brusque, businesslike affair, stripped of all ceremony. Rhyanon stays long enough to see the thing through, but she doesn't stick around. She leaves the men to their celebrations and retreats to the quiet of her own quarters. Nightmares keep her awake through most of the night, old memories of the Circle mixing with Warden dreams strengthened by the new blood of the Joining.

She heads down to the dining hall again, though with the sun not even risen, the room is empty. After perhaps half an hour, Anders joins her, silently. He rubs his face with the heel of his hand and drops onto the bench across from Rhyanon, looking exhausted. He reaches across the table, reaching for a bit of the bread she's got on her plate. She pulls it away from him and frowns. There's only one thing that _happens _at the Keep this early in the morning. "You still go to Chantry services?" she asks, not bothering to hide her confusion.

"Every day."

"_Why?_"

Anders shrugs. This time, when he grabs for food, Rhyanon doesn't protest. He doesn't want to fight about this; it's not something he's ever really been able to explain to her. "It's... familiar, I guess."

"You hate the Chantry."

Anders clenches his hand into a fist, kicks at the leg of the table, looks down... and shakes his head. "No, I don't," he whispers. "_You _do."

Rhyanon wants to tell him that she doesn't hate it either. The truth is more complex than that. She _wants _to believe in something good. She's fairly desperate for it, at the moment. But she can't make it from _wanting_ to believe to actually believing. She's never been able to cross that gap, not even when she was a little kid.

Anders reaches out and grabs her hand, and she looks up immediately, responding to the touch. She looks into his familiar brown eyes. "Hey," he says softly. "Do you remember home?"

She knows he doesn't mean the Tower, he _can't_, but that's all the real memories she has anymore, beyond fragmented flashes she can't place. She shakes her head.

"Maybe the Chantry is like... home, for me. Because it's the same, you know? No matter where I go, no matter what else changes. I need something that stays the same. Just one thing."

Rhyanon nods, because that she does understand; that desperate need for just _one thing _to cling to when everything else can be taken away. And she damn well knows Anders doesn't believe in the parts that punish them just for being what they are.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" he asks, frowning at her.

She shakes her head. "Of course I'm not."


	6. Chapter 6

The dining hall slowly fills with people as the windows let in the rapidly-brightening light of day. Rhyanon slowly sips a mug of tea as she listens to the comfortable chatter of her fellow Wardens. There is still only a handful of them, but she respects their opinions and their assistance. Sharing meals together has quickly become a habit, a part of the day she looks forward to. She lingers at the table long after Seneschal Varel attempts to call her away to discuss business. But they all have things to do – there is training, and the endless work of turning an arl's family home into a servicable fortress. Rhyanon excuses herself after most of the men have already turned to their duties, when only Anders and Oghren are left at the table.

The seneschal informs her in his usual brisk, businesslike tone that one of the gardeners has discovered the entrance to a long-unused tunnel that may lead to the Deep Roads.

"The darkspawn have a clear shot to the Keep?" Rhyanon repeats slowly. Terror and dread wash over her, along with incredible disbelief at the fact that no one's thought to tell her this before _now_.

"It is possible," Varel concedes. "You should look into it."

Rhyanon shakes her head at the man's powers of understatement, and practically runs to the small garden shed, grabbing every trustworthy fighter she passes on the way. A servant boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, is sorting through the tools and supplies when they arrive. He jumps to his feet and salutes her. Rhyanon smiles. It's clear the boy was raised with stories of heroes and valiant warriors alongside his mother's milk. She returns the salute, still grinning, then crouches down to study the hidden passageway the boy reveals.

Rhyanon knows the first attack on the Keep, before her arrival, was mostly a front door assault. But still, she wonders. "Could someone have used this passageway without someone noticing?" she asks. Human or darkspawn, an access point for spies or saboteurs is troubling indeed.

The boy shrugs. "Maybe not," he ventures hesitantly. "I mean, there's a lot of rocks and stuff in the way. They _could _get in, maybe. But they haven't yet. Look, it's still covered up."

Rhyanon scowls, but nods. "Come on," she insists. "We're going to fix it."

Behind her, Anders and Oghren cast nervous glances at each other. The dwarf shrugs, then picks up his axe and whistles cheerfully. Anders rolls his eyes. Rhyanon hangs back so she can talk to him.

"Rhyanon, I'm not a fighter," he pleads.

She shrugs. "You are now." This is the reality of being a Grey Warden, that there is death inside them, that they have offered themselves as the living shield between the Blight and the rest of the world. "Don't worry, Anders," she says more carefully, reading his look. "We need you as a healer, not..." she trails off, afraid to put it into words. Not _what_? A killer? Like she is.

"Okay," Anders mutters. He doesn't want to admit how terrified he is, how the darkspawn had sickened him thoroughly in that first battle. He'd lashed out at them with primal panic, and now Rhyanon wants him to go fight them _voluntarily_. But she's doing it. He watches as she converses calmly with Oghren and Nathaniel and a handful of Orlesian Wardens he doesn't know the names of, the remnants of the force that had occupied the place before the darkspawn's ambush. They all seem to be in good spirits. He's the only one who's uncertain. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, smiling as the kitten scrabbles against his fingers. He pets the small animal, running his fingers gently down his back, as he walks. Eventually, the cat settles in to sleep, heedless of the danger they're walking into.

The land slopes downward and the world grows darker as Rhyanon leads them into the cellars and subbasements. It makes Anders shiver to think of the darkspawn lurking so close to the fortress where people should be safe. When they come from underground, unceasingly, how can you hide?

Rhyanon's footsteps are careful and sure. She radiates an easy confidence that draws the other Wardens to her. There is no room to spread out in the narrow tunnels, so they crowd close together, nearly tripping over one another. The weight of where they are eventually forces a quiet hust on the group. Anders feels a surge of familiar mana, a wave of warmth touching his mind from the place of the other side of the Veil, as Rhyanon creates a ball of green fire that casts a soft glow. Eerie shadows respond, spilling from every direction as they walk.

Anders concentrates on inhaling and exhaling, slowly. He talks to himself under his breath, and he carefully follows Rhyanon's footsteps. The Orlesian Wardens chatter loudly in their harsh accent, but Anders isn't listening to their words. He pushes forward, because moving is better than staying still. He stretches out with hyperalert senses, probing the new darkness of the poison inside of him – in his blood, in his mind, at the edges of the Fade. The eerie song pierces through a moment later, and he holds a makeshift staff out to protect himself. He swallows hard, to stop himself from screaming. "They're coming," he says instead, and his voice is surprisingly calm.

He can feel the darkspawn's shared taint pulling at its reflection inside of him. It's a surprisingly sharp pain. He glances at his fellow Wardens, trying to determine if they're feeling the same thing. If they are, they do not so any visible reaction. They heed the warning in the manner of trained soldiers, preparing to shield themselves, positioning themselves for a tactical strike as much as possibly in the tight quarters of the narrow, spiraling path into the Deep Roads.

"We need more space," Rhyanon insists. "It's too crowded in here. If they've got magic, we're dead." The hall opens into a chamber just around the corner. Rhyanon can feel it in the air, and Oghren confirms it, feeling at home underground in a way that none of the rest of them will ever be able to. Rhyanon pushes them ahead. They have to get to that space before the darkspawn do.

"We'll walk right into a trap!" Nathaniel screams. But Rhyanon ignores him. She charges ahead, into the echoing darkness where the darkspawn laugh, although they still lurk unseen.

Anders shivers at the same time as he is aware of a single bead of sweat trailing down his spine. His eyes sweep frantically through the deep, shifting shadows. His chest constricts as icy tendrils of fear squeeze tightly around him, holding him still. It takes effort to move forward, one step at a time. He focuses on the soft whispers of cloth as his companions move ahead, cautiously scouting their way through this hostile terrain. His stomach flips and churns and he does not let himself look anywhere but straight ahead. He can feel the walls pressing close. The jagged rock rips at his clothing when they are pressed into particularly narrow passageways. Thankfully, those walls soon fall away. Rhyanon was right. There is space here. Even underground. He breathes shallowly, and listens, and his heartbeat slowly stops racing as they return to the open caverns. He can hear the wind whistling through the empty spaces when the rocks begin to crumble.

"They'll know we're here," Oghren grumbles. Anders looks down at his boots and hunches his shoulders as he wraps his arms more tightly around himself and presses forward. He tries and fails to shake off the whispering voices in his head that make that all too obvious. They grow louder and more urgent, and the slimy black oil of the taint boils in his blood as the shadows grow darker.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, the shadows form into shapes: lumbering hulks of twisted, rotting flesh like nothing human. Anders' nearly-empty stomach roils and he has to fight the urge to vomit. Memory batters at the edge of his mind, the smell of burning corpses, charred metal... bile rises in his throat. He breathes through his mouth, slow and deep and careful, and he stumbles and nearly trips as Nate shoves him out of the way.

Anders licks his lips. He feels the hum of mana vibrating through the air, and his gaze is drawn toward one of the darkspawn mages. The familiarity of that magic that ties them together is warped and distorted by the tainted darkness that is so overwhelmingly strong in the monster. It's there inside him too, and it sings in his blood, a corrupted song that paralyzes him and makes his hair stand on end.

"Get outta the way, ya useless imbecile," Oghren grunts. The dwarven warrior stalks forward with his two-handed battleaxe raised high above his head as he charges toward the small groups of darkspawn already stalking toward them.

Anders frowns - the darkspawn seem to be moving with a calculating caution that he'd never have expected coming from them.

"Anders!" Rhyanon yells. She glances once more at the emissary, who stands untouched by the fray, in an unnatural island of calm. "It's the magic. It's controlling them."  
>Anders nods, but he doesn't have the first idea what she's asking him to do, how to turn off that spell. He can't get close enough to the mage to even begin to figure out what it might take, not when there is plenty of more urgent danger within arm's reach.<p>

Rhyanon seems aware of it too. She lights up a ball of fire in her hands and throws it outward to lick at the approaching enemy, first with sporadic flickering flames, growing quickly to engulf them in an all-consuming blaze. They scream and burn, and as their still-smoking bodies fall to the ground, bubbling blisters pop and ooze from their dead flesh. Anders swallows hard and forces himself to concentrate, but he can't summon the power necessary to do _anything _useful. He remembers, belatedly, the knife at his belt, and he snatches it just as he feels another flare of mana he recognizes. There is a bright blue flash and he's nearly knocked off his feet by the force of Rhyanon's kinetic blast. He didn't know she was so _strong_.

The wave of energy leaves him dazed. His head rings, and his vision blurs, and he notices - almost too late - the charging darkspawn that she doesn't see.

"Rhyanon!" He can't help the choking panic that surges up in his stomach as he calls out her name. The blow from the hurloc catches her off guard, and he winces. His heartbeat pounds, quickly and loudly, under his ribcage. There's no way the darkspawn should have gotten that close; she's supposed to be _protected_. But she's stubborn enough to charge into the worst of the fight, she'll get herself hurt without thinking, and he _knows _it. Anders glances to his right, looking for Nate. The other man is entangled in a large enough group of his own, though the Orlesian Wardens are doing their best to help the Howe heir drive back the darkspawn. Yet again Anders laments how outnumbered they are down here. He curses the necessity that brought them down here and the stupidity that sent them charging into an ambush.

He can hear Oghren's stubborn curses as the dwarf pushes back yet more attackers on his left. He can hear the ringing of steel and the sharp thwacks of weapons scoring deep hits, and he can only hope that those are the weapons of his companions, carving into the diseased flesh of the approaching darkspawn. He focuses that perception to the back of his mind, knowing that as long as his shouts and spits continue, Oghren is still alive.

Anders risks taking his eyes off of Rhyanon for a few more agonizingly slow heartbeats as he centers himself, drawing in one long, deep breath, and then another, pulling the mana from deep within him to the surface. It seems to take a long time to be able to grasp that power, with adrenaline and anxiety dancing through his body in overwhelming jittery waves. He's spent too many years learning never to lash out with magic in this state, _no matter what_.

His muscles still scream at him to run. He ignores the familiar warning. And he dives in, next to her. He stops _thinking _and just reacts, launching icy needles of pain at the darkspawn closing in on him. He pushes them away, leaving only empty silence as their bodies shatter and explode. Anders falls to his knees, gasping for air, struggling to catch his breath. Tears sting his eyes as he scrambles for more power. He reaches and feels nothing, and the panic claws in his stomach. That combined with the stench of the aftermath of battle around him and the taint swimming in his blood is enough that he cannot contain it anymore. He heaves and vomits, spilling his breakfast onto the dirty stone floor in front of him. He sees Rhyanon in front of him, bleeding, and that's enough to shock him into action. He doesn't care what the templars will do to him, he just needs to help _her_, that's all that matters. He crawls over to her and forces himself to _think_. He searches with eyes and fingers for the source of the pain he can _feel_, the source of the blood. And with his other hand, he digs into her pack for the vials he knows are there. His fingers close around one and he knows what it is without looking, he can feel the singing hum of lyrium. He pops open the stopper and lets it fall to the ground, and gulps down the contents of the vial.

Mana rushes in like a crashing wave, and Anders nearly cries with joy. He lets his fingers brush gently over the still bleeding wound at Rhyanon's scalp. Beneath his touch, she flinches and tries to pull away. He holds her still, despite how violently she squirms as he lets the healing magic flow into her. He can't make it _work. _It should be easy.  
>The hissing voices of the darkspawn still ring close, but Anders knows it is just an echo. He cannot <em>feel <em>them anymore. Rhyanon's skin is too pale, too clammy. The fever-heat of tainted blood overwhelms him. He pours more and more mana into her, seeking desperately for some way to help her. His fingers scrabble for another vial.

"I dunno about that, Sparklefingers," Oghren mutters. "I seen what that stuff did t'the Commander durin' the Blight." The look on the dwarf's face is surprisingly concerned, but Anders shrugs it off. He doesn't wait for permission.

The lyrium surges through his system, leaving him shaking and unable to think. He stops trying to. The whispers grow louder at the edges of his mind and the colors of the Fade sing their familiar song. The power fills him, as he whispers nonsense words of meaningless comfort to Rhyanon. He finds the fever inside her, the heat wraps itself around him, and he reaches out with slow, lapping waves of cold, driving toward the source of the infection, one he recognizes... magebane. The word is right, but he can't quite wrap around what it means, he just wants it _gone_, he needs to help her. He dumps more and more of the Fade's power into Rhyanon, and she stirs in his arms. Her eyes blink open groggily, and she wraps her fingers tight around his wrist and mutters some kind of unintelligible protest. Anders feels something, _someone_, grabbing his arm and he thrashes and fights. Someone yells his name, but he ignores it. He is vaguely aware of a hard, stinging slap and he tries to fight back, pulling on the power that should be there but _isn't. _And then the panic overwhelms him, one bright flash of light before everything goes black.

When he wakes up again, it's with the warm softness of a mattress beneath him. He can feel tangled blankets wrapping themselves around him, and he kicks them away, but they're twisted around his legs.

"Anders." He forces himself to stop, to breathe. He glances up, to see Rhyanon frowning down at him, with that worried expression that always makes him feel guilty as hell.  
>"What in the Maker's name were you thinking?" she asks. Her voice is soft, but Anders can hear the harsh anger in it. Anger and fear. She still won't let go of him. He flinches away, unable to look at her, as he slowly begins to comprehend what he'd done, the danger he'd put them all in.<p>

"It was you," he murmurs. "I couldn't..." He can't find the words to explain it, not to her satisfaction or his either. But he wouldn't change it. Before he can stop himself, he kisses her. "It's _you_," he insists.

Rhyanon nods. And she kisses him back. "Rest," she insists. "I'll be back in a little while."

When she opens the door to the office she's comandeered from Seneschal Varel, Nathaniel is waiting for her.

"May I have a word with you, Commander?" he asks carefully. He keeps his voice perfectly neutral, not yet letting on what it is he wants to talk with her about. Because the truth is, it's nothing good.

He's seen how distracted she's been, how careless. She's made one illogical decision after another, or no decisions at all, when it comes to the arling and the rebuilding of the Wardens. And he knows a thing or two about what he's seeing. After all, he'd been raised to follow after his father as the arl some day, before everything went to the Void.

His quick appraisal is enough to notice that the commander looks like she hasn't been sleeping. She looks physically exhausted. And overwhelmed. And confused. Her desk is littered with paperwork, but she barely glances at it. He hesitates for a fraction of a second. Even from here, he can see the shadows under her eyes. He thinks about coming back the next day, but decides against it. Now is as good a time as ever. Or as bad.

He comes a little closer but remains standing, hands crossed behind his back. He waits for permission to speak, because she's not paying full attention to him.

Rhyanon squirms a little under his unblinking stare. "What do you want?" she asks cautiously.

Nate frowns, but he relaxes slightly. Well, at least in posture. If anything, her uncertainty only makes him more worried.

He clears his throat and exhales cautiously, then plunges on ahead. "I was wondering if you'd decided how we're supposed to proceed with the volunteers coming to the Keep. As far as I'm led to believe, we are looking for recruits. But not everyone seems suitable. Your men are wondering what is expected of them."

Rhyanon frowns. She studies the man in front of her now, the prodigal son caught breaking into his own home. She doesn't know how to talk to him, not really. He belongs in charge of this place, doesn't he? He belongs here far more than she does, and yet here he is, asking her what he's supposed to do. He watches her, calm and impassive, waiting for an answer. "Make it clear that volunteers need to be absolutely committed," she replies, with quiet force. "Make it _clear_ what kind of threat we're facing. I won't lie to them. And the ones who aren't... suitable…" She stops, briefly, drawing in a long breath, buying herself half a second to think. It sounds so wrong, making that kind of judgement. Saying it out loud. "We can find something for them to do," she insists. "The Keep is falling apart. We need help with more than fighting. It's even _more_ important. We need people who can build defenses, find food and armor and trade. We need..." She stops. Nathaniel knows what they need. Probably better than she does.

"May I suggest we try that... test... you've been mentioning? Collecting darkspawn blood. Most of them will already chicken out at the mere suggestion of that. It'll make things easier."

He's right. Rhyanon knows it immediately. She remembers what it was like for her, the pure blind terror of fighting her first darkspawn in the Korcari Wilds. She'd never have done it if she hadn't been forced to. But when she was... She had to stay alive. She fought to keep herself alive. It's a good test. "Do it," she orders. "Send whoever is willing as soon as we can."

Nate nods briskly. "Very well. Will you be part of a squad, Commander? It would be good for morale if you took part in the testing."

Rhyanon blinks and shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. _She has to focus._ "Of course I'll go," she replies, instantly. _How is that even a question?_ "Anders can go too. Help make sure everyone comes back alive."

To Nate's discerning ears, the commander sounds confused. Insulted even. Well, he probably would be too, in her place. He's pretty much come to accuse her of being completely incompetent. "Of course, Commander," he says evenly. "My apologies. I didn't mean to question your resolve. But you seemed... preoccupied as of late. I was under the impression you had more pressing matters to attend to."

"Stop calling me 'Commander.' Please. It's Rhyanon." She look at him directly for the first time since he got here. "Do you want to sit down?"

There's a chair. Books are on it, but he could move those. He doesn't, though. He ignores her offer to sit down. "With all due respect, Commander, it wouldn't be suitable for me to call you by your first name. You are the commander and the arlessa. It would undermine your status."

Rhyanon snorts. "Who exactly am I trying to impress with the fancy names? There's nobody in here but me and you, and the titles don't do anything to impress you."

Nate suppresses a smile. She's clever, he'll give her that. "No, they don't," he agrees. "But there are enough people out there who care a lot about 'fancy names.' Why do you think they come to volunteer? It's certainly not the prospect of going into the Deep Roads fighting darkspawn. It's the prestige of serving under the Hero of Ferelden. You have to use your names to your advantage, Commander."

"I never asked to be a hero. Or a commander." Rhyanon shrugs. "A long, long time ago I was surrounded by tutors who insisted I know the right way to dress, and speak, and which bannermen swore to which lords and what their shields looked like and how to run a household. I hated it then and I remember only little flashes of it now."

Nate can hear the resignation in her voice, the defensiveness. He leans down, placing his hands on her desk. He looks her straight in the eye. "Tell me one thing, Commander: if you hate it so much, if you never wanted to be in the place you are now... then why are you here?"

"Because my only other option is death." She says it evenly, without a hint of fear. Resigned, just like he noticed already.

"Good to know that," Nate spits. "It at least explains why you try so damned hard to get yourself killed. Yourself _and your men_. I think I may be well advised to send a letter to the queen to ask for a replacement."

"If you wanna be in charge, just say so!" Rhyanon yells.

She takes his well-mannered proposal as the threat it is. Which is weird. She doesn't want the job. And she does think she should be dead... Doesn't she?

"When did I say that?" Nate asks. He shakes his head. "No, another Howe in charge is certainly not a good idea. Not right now. But the fact remains that you are not fit to lead the Wardens, not when you have a death wish." He shrugs. "We can solve that right here and now."

He holds her gaze, noticing _everything_. Every gesture, every breath. He needs a confirmation, one way or another. if he has to trust her, he has to be absolutely certain that trust is well-deserved.

"If you were gonna kill me, you'd have done it by now," Rhyanon tells him. Her voice is just as carefully even as his. "I've had enough people threaten my life to know when they're serious."

And she is the worst offender. Does she have a death wish? It kinda depends on when you ask.

"Oh, I'm _dead_ serious, Commander. I'd rather end it right here than see another soldier risk his life for someone who doesn't give a damn if they live or die." Slowly, he draws the dagger by his side and places it on the desk in between them. "I ask you again, Commander. Do you have a death wish?"

"Yes," Rhyanon whispers. It sounds desperate. Pained.

Nate nods, and reaches for the dagger. He picks it up again, slowly, deliberately. He steps around the desk, behind her, and wraps an arm around her chest. He places the blade at her throat with light pressure, makes her feel the coldness of the steel. As the long seconds tick by, she does nothing to stop him. "I'll make it quick," he whispers.

Rhyanon ignores him. She ignores the threat, ignores everything, as her body tenses. She takes shallow, careful breaths as she focuses inside, enough to cast. A layer of magical armor forms itself, clinging close to her skin. She slams her elbow backward into Nate and pulls away from him. The movement makes the dagger scrape, enough to bleed, but the cut isn't deep and she ignores it. Her mana is crackling all around her. And she stares him down. Her heart is beating dangerously fast. She's ready to fight. She studies him, trying to figure out his next move.

Nate struggles to breathe, holding his ribs where her elbow caught him. The girl has quite the punch.

He laughs, relieved and amused despite the pain. "Well done, Commander," he rasps. "Very well done."

Rhyanon's fingers are still clenched into a tight fist, and she doesn't bother to shut down the wild sparks of raw magic that need an outlet. "Isn't that treason?" she asks. "Or mutiny or something? Almost killing me."

"If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. I just wanted to prove a point."

Rhyanon lets the magic bleed away slowly. "You think I'm going to throw away lives?" She sits on the edge of the desk, trying not to let on how exhausted that sudden expenditure of mana made her. She shakes her head. "Only mine. And only when _I_ decide."

"Then what was that in the Deep Roads? You blindly ran into an ambush the rest of us saw coming from a mile away! I warned you, if you may recall, and so did Jaime, but you didn't listen! You do know who Jaime is, right? The one who lost his leg down there because of your recklessness! And it could easily have been more than just his leg! So don't you dare telling me you're only playing with your own life, _Commander_!"

Nathaniel's yelling makes Rhyanon flinch. Not visibly, she knows better than that, but inside she's cringing. Still, if he's going to come in here and demand that she's in charge... She grabs him, and slams him against the wall. "You don't just get to come in here and attack me," she snarls.

He defends himself, as she'd known he would. He grabs her and twists her arms behind her back. "See it as a wake-up call."

Rhyanon throws him off of her and glares at him. "Sit. Down," she growls. "Touch me again and I'll throw you back in a cell." She is ice cold now. Her head pounds with pain and there's a whining buzz. She ignores that.

Nate chuckles, sarcastically, and gives her one more shove before he steps back. "Ah, so you're threatening people now. You don't take criticism too well, do you?"

It takes serious effort to unclench her jaw and relax her muscles, to convince herself that he is not really attacking her. She leans against the wall and hesitates for a few long seconds. Then she just shakes her head: No. She really doesn't.

Nate looks at her for a long moment, but then he does as she told him, and sits down in front of the desk. He looks relaxed, with his fingers loosely crossed in front of him and one leg over the other. He doesn't speak. It's her turn.

She sits down too, in her chair across the desk from him. "Mages exist to serve man, never to to rule over them," she says quietly. She quotes it in arcanum, wondering if the man she'd caught behaving as a common thief is really as well educated as he's supposed to be.

Nate raises an eyebrow. "The Chant? I didn't know you were a believer, Commander." He shakes his head. "The verses are nice, but don't think you can excuse your behavior with them. You took this post and it remains your responsibility until you or the queen choose otherwise. And as long as that's the case, you will have to act the part. Or are you really so cold that you don't care for Jaime, or any other man under your command?"

"Of course I care!" Rhyanon yells. She closes her eyes, and forces herself to breathe. To calm down. Her emotions are dangerously turbulent, and of course he knows that. Isn't that why he's here? "I just... _You_ were taught how to be a soldier. How to lead, how to _take responsibility._ I spent my whole life learning that I am not allowed to be a leader! That no one will listen to me, that no one should!" She meets Nathaniel's eyes, begging him to understand. But why would he? How _could _he? She tries to put it into words anyway. "It's not an easy lesson to shake off," she demands desperately. "Especially when the whole world is dying around you, no matter how much you _care_. You think I'm not trying? You're wrong."

"It's a miracle you survived the Blight, the way you describe things. The Warden I heard about led a whole army. She fought an archdemon on top of Fort Drakon. I have a hard time imagining the little girl in front of me doing all of that."

"Shut up! You don't know anything about me or what happened during the Blight! Where were you? Hiding across the sea, playing with toy swords?"

That comment strikes right where it intended to, but Nate keeps his face blank. This is not about him. She's deliberately mean. Just like him.

"You're right," he replies softly. He bites out every word, making sure she hears him. "I wasn't here. I wasn't even close. I do have ears, though, and the stories they tell show a different Warden than the one standing here in front of me. Even when you leave the exaggerations out, your deeds speak loudly enough. Where has that woman gone, Rhyanon?"

"_I didn't die_," she responds. It's maybe the first truly honest thing she's said since that night he insists on making her relive. "I didn't die and I was supposed to and that stupid stubborn idiot didn't listen to me! He made a promise and he broke it and he didn't even think about the fact that I _wanted_ to die! I wanted to, I was supposed to! _I_ was supposed to!"

She's completely falling apart. She's not thinking about what she's saying or who she's talking to. She just has to say it.

And Nate isn't surprised. Not at all. The stories always do have some truth in them, and it's obvious that the stories about her loving the dead Warden, the bastard-king, contain all the truth in the world.

"And what is it that makes you so angry?" he asks quietly. "That he saved your life because he thought you deserved to live? Or is it more that you wanted to be the great hero who sacrificed herself for her country and he took that away from you?"

Maybe he should show compassion but he can't bring himself to. She doesn't need his pity. She's got enough pity for herself already.

"I don't deserve to live," Rhyanon insists. Her voice is bitter enough that it nearly chokes both of them.

"Did you trust him, Rhyanon? Really trust him? Or was he just… what? A way to blow off some steam? One among many?"

"Of course he wasn't! He was..." She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to calm her breathing. How is she even supposed to put into words what Alistair was? "I trusted him. I loved him. I believed in him. He was everything."

"Then why in the Void do you spit on his sacrifice?! He wanted you to _live_! He believed you _deserve _to live! And what are you doing? You try to die! Instead of honoring his wish, you step on it!"

Rhyanon curls up on herself, wraps her arms tight around her body, ducks her head. She's crying. "Because he was wrong about me," she insists. "I'm not a hero. I can't help anybody. Everyone I care about gets hurt. It doesn't matter what I say or do or try, I can't stop it. All I can do is watch. I have to watch the people I love get hurt. I have to watch them die. And I just can't do it anymore, I _can't_! I don't want to!"

_You don't have to_. Maker, why can't she see it. Why won't she believe him when he tells her that?

"You helped a lot of people already, you know?" Nate points out. "You ended a _Blight_. Do you think just anyone would have been able to do that? You have the strength to change things. And your friend knew it. He trusted you. Enough to give you a second chance at life." The reluctant commander stares at him with reddened eyes. Nate presses on. "People get hurt," he tells her softly. "You have to live with it, want to or not. Especially the ones you love."

She looks like she wants to believe it. Like she wants to, and can't. "I just don't know what to do anymore. How to... change things. He just left me! He left me all alone and I don't know what to do."

_Yes you do, _Nate thinks. _You __do__ know. _"Make him proud," he says aloud. "Don't let his sacrifice be for nothing. Prove that he was right to save you. If you loved him as you said, you'll do that. You'll figure out some way to make it work."

"Why do you even care?" Rhyanon asks quietly. She looks up at him. She's calmer now, curious. Talking about Alistair makes her stomach hurt, there's a searing burn choking her, but it's no longer the stabbing needle. She can talk. She can think more clearly now. "What makes you so sure I can do this? Why do you even listen to me in the first place?" _Why are you trying to help me?_ is what she doesn't ask.

"Why didn't you execute me when you had the chance?" he counters.

"Because I'm not like them!" It's an instantaneous response. No thought involved.

"Them?" Nate asks softly. He treads lightly, afraid to say the wrong thing and shut her down again. He holds her gaze. He barely breathes.

Rhyanon blinks and takes a few careful breaths. Sometimes it's still hard to remember that not everyone comes from the same world she does, with a sword dangling at your throat every minute of every day. "The templars who were about to execute me," she clarifies, without looking at the soldier sitting across from her.

Nate notices her skittishness, the attempt there, in her body language, to push him away. He doesn't let her do that. He just shakes his head. "That's no answer," he insists. "Why didn't you execute me?"

He's genuinely curious. The walls of this Keep are far less comfortable than he lets on. Rhyanon isn't the only one haunted by shadows and ghosts and old memories. "I insulted you. I broke into the Keep. I tried to kill you. I gave you good reasons."

"Because I've seen enough people die. I don't need to add more to the list. I don't _want_ to kill you, I don't want to kill anybody. I told you, I'm sick of seeing people get hurt because of me." She frowns, still avoiding looking at him. "Plus, what the hell kind of person thinks insulting someone is a good enough reason to kill them?"

Nate chuckles. "See? That's why I care. I've got a good feeling, with you. You're a good person. Your friend was right about that." He sighs. "I want to help you, Rhyanon, but you have to give me the chance to do so. And if not me, then someone else. You have to learn to trust yourself and your men. They depend on you, and you have to depend on them. We need our commander."

"Okay," she says softly.

It's easy to agree, harder to understand. Trust isn't an easy thing. But she can try.


End file.
